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PItICI) 30 CUNTS, 


A NOVEL 


MRS. OLIPHANT 


t7 TO 27 VAND£W/TCf\ St 

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e Seaside Library, rocket Edition, Issued Tri weekly. By subscription ©;>u per a.111* ’ • 

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THE 


GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


A HOTEL. 


By MR$. OLIPHANT. 

H 

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NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

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MRS. OLIPHANT’S WORKS 

CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): 


NO. PRICE. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife . . . . . .30 

321 The Prodigals, and their Inheritance ... 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 

including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor .20 

357 John 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland ....... 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn: A Story of the Scottish Reforma- 
tion 20 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret 

Maitland of Sunnyside ...... 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life . , ... . 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate .... .20 

569 Harry Muir ......... 20 

603 Agnes. First half ....... 20 

603 Agnes. Second half 20 

604 Innocent : A Tale of Modern Life. First half. , 20 

604 Innocent : A Tale of Modern Life. Second half . 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Portrait . , . . 10 

687 A Country Gentleman , 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself .... 20 

710 The Greatest Heiress in England .... 20 





CHAPTER I. 


NO. 6 IN TH^ TERRACE. 

A country town, quiet, simple, and dull, chiefly of old con- 
struction, but with a few new streets and scattered villas of modem 
flimsiness, a river flowing through it, dulled and stilled with the 
frost; trees visible in every direction, blocking up the hoiizon and 
making a background, though only with a confused anatomy of 
bare branches, to the red houses; not many people about the streets, 
and these cold, subdued, only brightening a little with the idea that 
if the frost “ held ” there might be skating to-morrow. On one 
side the High Street trended down a slight slope toward the river, 

I on the other ran vaguely away into a delta of small streets, w T hich, 
in their turn, led to the common, on the edge of which lay the 
new district of Farafield. All towns it is said have a tendency to 
stray and expand themselves toward the west, and this te what had 
happened here. The little new streets, roads, crescents, and places, 

S ail strayed toward the setting sun. The best and biggest of these, 
and at the same time the furthest off of all, was the Terrace, a 
somewhat gloomy row of houses, facing toward the common, and 
commanding across the strip of garden which kept them in digni 
fled seclusion from the road a full view of the broken expanse of 
gorse and heather over which the sunsets played, affording to these 4 
monotonous windows a daily spectacle far more splendid than any 
official pomp. There were but twelve of these houses, ambitiously 
built to look like one great “ Elizabethan mansion. ” Except one or 
two large old-fashioned substantial houses in the market-place, 
these were the largest and most pretentious dwellings in the town; 
the proud occupants considered the pile as a very fine specimen of 
modern domestic architecture, and its gentility was undoubted. It 
was the landlord’s desire that nobody who worked for his or her 
living should enter these sacred precincts. It is difficult to keep so 





6 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


noble a resolution in a country where so many occupations which 
are not conspicuous to the common eye live and grow; but still it 
was an exalted aim. 

In this town there was a street, and in this street there was a 
house, and in this house there was a room. After this fairy-tale 
fashion we may be permitted to begin this history. The house, 
which was called No. 6 in the Terrace, w T as in no way remarkable 
externally among its neighbors; but within the constitution of the 
family was peculiar. The nominal master of the house "was a re- 
tired clerk of the highest respectability, with his equally respecta- 
ble wife. But it was well known that this excellent couple existed 
(in the Terrace) merely as ministers to the comfort of an old man 
who inhabited the better part of the house, and whose convenience 
was paramount over all its other arrangements. There was a link 
of relationship, it was understood, between the Fords and old Mr. 
Trevor, and though there w r as no great disparity of social condition 
between them, yet there was the great practical difference that old 
Trevor was very rich, and the Fords had no more than sufficient 
for their homely wants — wants much more humble than those of 
the ordinary' residents in the Terrace, who were the elite of the 
town. This gave a tone of respect to their inlercourse on one side, 
and a kind of superiority on the other. The Fords were of the 
opinion that old Mr. Trevor had greatly the best of the bargain. lie 
had none of the troubles of a house upon his shoulders, and he had 
all its advantages. The domestic arrangements w r hich cost Mrs. 
Ford so much thought cost him nothing but money; he had no 
care, no annoyance about anything, neither taxes to pay nor serv- 
ants to look after, and everything went on like clock-work; his tastes 
were considered in every way, and all things were made subservient 
to him. When coals or meat rose in value, or when one of the three 
servants (each more troublesome than the other, as it is the nature 
of maids to be) w r as disagreeable, what did it matter to old Mr. Tre- 
vor? And when that question arose about the borough rate, what 
bad he to say to it? Nothing, absolutely nothing! all this daily 
burden was on the shoulders of Richard Ford and Susan his w r ife; 
whereas Mr. Trevor had nothing to do but to put his hand into his 
pocket, to some people the easiest exercise. He had the best of 
everything, the chief rooms, and the most unwearied attendance; 
and not only for him but for his two children, who were a still 
more anxious charge, as Mrs. Ford expressed it, was every good 
thing provided. Sometimes the excellent couple grumbled, and 
sometimes felt it hard that, being relations, there should be so much. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


7 


difference; but, on the whole, both parties were aware that their own 
comforts profited by the conjunction, and the household machinery 
worked smoothly, with as few jars and as much harmony as is pos- 
sible to man. 

At the time this history begins, Mr. Trevor was seated in the 
drawing-room, the best rom in the house. The Fords occupied, 
the front parlor below, where the furniture was moderate and 
homely; but all the skill of the upholsterer had been displayed 
above. The room had two long windows looking out over the com- 
mon, not at this moment a very cheerful prospect. There was 
nothing outside but mist and dampness, made more dismal by in- 
cipient frost, and full of the sentiment of cold, a chill that went to 
your heart. The prospect inside was not much adapted to warm or 
cheer in such circumstances. The windows were cut down to the 
floor, as is usual in suburban houses, and though the draught had 
been shut out as much as possible by list and starnped leather, and 
by the large rugs of silky white fur which lay in front of each win- 
dow, yet there were still little impertinent whiffs of air blowing 
about. And the moral effect w T as still more chilly. It was not an 
artistic room, according to the fashion of the present day, or one 
indeed in which any taste to speak of had been shown. The walls 
were white with gilded ornaments, the curtains were blue, the car- 
pet showed large bouquets of flowers upon a light ground. There 
were large prints, very large, and not very interesting, royal mar- 
riages and christenings, hanging, one in the center of each wall. 
Thus it will be seen there was nothing to distinguish it from a hun- 
dred other unremarkable and unattractive apartments of the ordi- 
nary British kind. A large folding screen was disposed round the 
door to keep out the draught, and the folding-doors which led into 
Mr. Trevor’s bedroom behind were veiled with curtains of the same 
blue as those of the windows. The old man was seated by a large 
fire in a comfortable easy-chair, with a writing-table within reach 
of his hand. Mr. Trevor w^as not a man of imposing presence; he 
was little and very thin, wrapped in a dark-colored dressing-gown, 
with a high collar in which he seemed pilloried, and a brow T n wig 
which imparted a very aged juvenility to his small and wrinkled 
face. Gray hairs harmonize and soften wrinkles; but the smooth 
chin and bright brown locks of this little old man gave him a some- 
what elfish appearance, something like that of an elderly bird. Ho 
sat with a pen in his hand making notes upon a large document 
opened out upon the writing-table, and his action and a little un- 
conscious chirp to which he gave vent now and then increased hi$ 


8 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


resemblance to an alert sparrow. And indeed, it might have been 
a claw which Mr. Trevor was holding up with a quill in it, and his 
little air of triumphant success and self-content, his head held on 
one side, and the dab he made from time to time upon his paper, 
gave him very much the air of a sparrow. He had laid down his 
“ Times,” which hung in a much crumpled condition, like a table- 
cover, over a small round table on his other hand, in order to make 
this sudden note, whatever it might be, and as he made it he 
chuckled. The paper on which he wrote was large blue paper, like 
that employed by lawyers, and had an air of formality and impor- 
tance. It was smoothed out over a big blotting-book, not long 
enough quite to contain it, and had a dog’s- ear at the lower corner, 
which proved a frequent recurrence on the part of the writer to this 
favorite manuscript . When he had written all that occurred to him, 
Mi. Trevor put down his pen and resumed the “Times;” but the 
interest of the previous occupation carried the day even over that 
invaluable newspaper, which is as good as a trade to idle persons. 
He had not gone down a column before he paused, rested his paper 
on his knee, and chuckled again. Then he leaned over the writing- 
table and read the note he had made, which was tolerably long; 
then, with his “ Times ” in his hand, rose and went to the door, 
losing himself behind the screen. There he stood for a moment, 
wrapping his dressing-gown around his thin legs with a shiver, and 
called for “ Ford! Ford!” Presently a reply came, muffled by the 
distance, from the room below. “ I’ve put in another clause,” the 
old man called over the stair. 

Ford below opened the door of his parlor to listen. 

“ Bless me! have you indeed, Mr. Trevor?” he replied, with less 
enthusiasm. 

“Come up, come up, and you shall hear it,” said the other, 
fidgeting with excitement. Then he returned to his easy-chair, 
laughing to himself under his breath. He bent over the document 
and read it again. “ They’ll keep her straight, they’ll keep her 
straight among them,” he said to himself. “ She’ll be clever if she 
goes wrong after all this,” and then he sat down again, chuckling 
and tucking the “ Times ” like a napkin over his knees. 

All this time he had not been alone; but his companion was not 
one who claimed much notice. There was spread before the fire a 
large milky- white rug, like those that stopped the draught from the 
windows; and upon this, half -buried in the fur, lay a small boy in 
knickerbockers absorbed in a book. The child was between seven 
and eight; he was dressed in a blue velveteen suit, somewhat 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


9 


shabby. He was small even for his small age. His face was a little 
pale face, with fair and rather lanky locks. Sometimes he would 
lie on his back with his book supported upon his chest — sometimes 
the other way, with the book on the rug, and his head a little 
raised, leaning on his hands. This was his attitude at present; he 
took no notice of his father, nor his father of him; he was a kind of 
postscript to old Mr. Trevor’s life; no one had expected him, no one 
had wanted him; when he chose to come into the world it was at 
his own risk, so to speak. He had been permitted to live, and had 
been called John — a good, safe, serviceable name, but no special 
encouragement of any other kind had been given to him, to pursue 
the thankless path of existence. Nevertheless, little Jock had done 
so in a dogged sort of way. He had been delicate, but he had al- 
ways gone on all the same. Lately he had found the best of all al- 
lies and defenders in his sister, but no one else took much notice of 
him, nor he of them; and his father and he paid no attention to 
each other. Mr. Trevor took care not to stumble over him, being 
thoroughly accustomed to his presence; and as for little Jock, he 
never stirred. He was on the rug in the body, but in soul he was 
in the forest of Ardennes, or tilting on the Spanish roads with Don 
Quixote. It was wonderful, some people thought, that such a 
baby should read at all, or reading, that he should have any books 
above the level of those that are written in three syllables. But 
the child had no baby-books, and therefore he took what he could 
get. Are not the baby-books a snare and delusion, keeping children 
out of their inheritance? How can they understand Shakespeare, 
you will say? and I suppose Jock did not understand; yet that 
great person pervaded the very air about this little person, so that it 
glowed and shone. Only his shoulders, raised a little way out of 
the white silky fluff of the rug, betrayed the immovable creature, 
and his book was almost lost altogether in it. There he lay, think- 
ing nothing of how his life was to run, or of the influences which 
might be developing round him. There was not a piece of furni- 
ture in the room which counted for less with Mr. Trevor than little 
Jock. 

Ford was a long time coming; he had some business of his own 
on hand, which though not half so important, was, on the whole, 
more interesting to him than Mr. Trevor’s business; and then he 
had a little argumentation with Mrs. Ford before he could get away. 

“What is it now?’’ Mrs. Ford said fretfully, “what does he 
make such a fuss about? Sure there’s nothing so yery wonderful 
in making a will. I’d say, 4 1 leave all I have to my two children/ 


10 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


and there would be an end of it. He makes as much of it as if it 
was a book that he was writing. Many a book has been written 
with less fuss.” 

“ My dear,” said Ford, “ there are many people who can write 
books and can not make a will; indeed the most of them have no 
need to, if all we hear is true. And you don’t give a thought to the 
interests— I may say the colossal interests— that are involved.” 

“ Pooh!” said Mrs. Ford, 11 1 think of our own interests if you 
please, which are all I care for. Is he going to leave us anything? 
that is what I want to know. ’ ’ 

“ I am sorry you are so mercenaiy, my dear.” 

“ I am not mercenary, Mr. Ford; but I like to see an inch before 
me, and know what is to become of me. He’s failing fast, any one 
can see that; and if we’re left ■with the lease of a big house on our 
hands — ” This was the danger that afflicted Mrs. Ford at all 
moments, and robbed her of her peace. 

“ Stuff!” Ford said. He knew a great deal about the important 
literary composition which the old gentleman -was concocting; but 
* he was not at liberty ” to mention what he knew. Sometimes it 
made him laugh secretly within himself to think how differently 
she would talk if she too knew. But then that is the case in most 
matters. He went upstairs at last deliberately, counting (as it 
Seemed) every step, while Mr. Trevor sat impatient in his great 
cliair, full of the enthusiasm of his own w r ork, and thinking every 
minute an hour till he could show his friend, who was entirely in 
his confidence, who almost seemed like his collaborateur, the last 
stroke he had made. It was the magnum opus of Mr. Trevor’s life, 
the work by which he hoped to be remembered, to attain that im- 
mortality in the recollection of other men which all men desire. 
For a long time he had been -working at it, a little bit at a time as it 
occurred to him. He was not like the thriftless literary persons to 
whom Ford compared him, who write whether they have anything 
to say or not, whether the fountain is welling forth freely or has to 
be pumped up drop by drop. Mr. Trevor composed his great 
work under the most favorable conditions. He had it by him con- 
stantly, night and day, and when something occurred to him, if it 
were in the middle of the night, he would get up and wrap his 
dressing-gown round his shrunken person and put it down. He did 
not forget it either sleeping or waking It was a resource for his 
imagination, an occupation for his life. Also it was likely to prove 
n considerable source of occupation to others after his death, if no- 
bc ay stepped in to lick it into shape 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 11 

When he heard Ford’s slep.on the stairs he began to chuckle 
again, already enjoying the surprise and admiration which he felt 
his last new idea must call forth. Ford was a very good literary 
confidant. He would find fault with a trifle now and then, which 
made his general approbation all the more valuable, as showing 
that there was discrimination in it. Mr. Trevor put away the 
“Times ’’from his knees, and drew the blotting-book with its 
precious contents a little nearer. He waited with as much im- 
patience as a lover would show for the appearance of his love. And 
he had time to take off his spectacles, clean them carefully, rubbing 
them with his handkerchief, and put them on again with great de- 
liberation before Ford, after very carefully and audibly closing the 
door behind him, appeared at last on the inner side of the screen 
which kept out the draught, that draught which rushed up the nar- 
row ravine of the staircase as up an Alpine couloir white with snow. 


CHAPTER II. 

OLD JOHN TREVOR. 

John Trevor had been a school-master for the greater part of 
his life. How he acquired so well sounding a name nobody knew. 
He had no relations, he always said, in the male line, and his friends 
on his mother’s side were people of undistinguished surnames. And 
for the first fifty years of his life he had maintained a very even 
tenor of existence, always respectable, always a man who kept his 
engagements, paid his way, gave his entire attention, as his circu- 
lars said, to the pupils confided to his care; but even in his school- 
mastership there was nothing of a remarkable character. After pass- 
ing many obscure years as an usher, he attained to an academy of 
his own, in which a sound religious and commercial education was 
insured, as the same circular informed the parents and guardians of 
Farafield, by the employment of most competent masters for all the 
branches included in the course, and by his own unremitting care. 
But often the masters at Mr. Trevor’s academy were represented 
solely by himself, and the number of his pupils never embarrassed 
or overweighted him. The good man, however, worked his way 
all the same; he kept afloat, which so many find it impossible to do. 
If the number of scholars diminished he lived harder, when it in- 
creased he laid by a little. He was never extravagant, never forgot 
that his occupation was a precarious one, and thus — turning out a 


12 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


few creditable arithmeticians to fill up the places in the little 
“offices” of Farafield, the solicitor’s, the auctioneer’s, the big 
builder’s, and even in the better shops, where they were the best of 
cashiers, never wrong in a total — he lived on from year to year 
His house was but a dingy one, with a large room for his pupils, 
and two upstairs, shabby enough, in which he lived; but, by dint 
of sheer continuance and respectability, John Trevor, by the time 
he was fifty, was as much respected in Farafield as a man leading 
such a virtuous, colorless, joyless, unblamable existence has a 
right to be. 

But at fifty a curious circumstance happened. John Trevor mar- 
ried. To say that he fell in love would perhaps scarcely represent 
the case. He had a friend who had been in India and all over the 
world, and who came home to Farafield with a liver-complaint, and 
a great deal of money, some people said. Trevor at first did not 
believe very much in the money. “I have enough to live upon,” 
his friend said; and what more was necessary? No one knew very 
well how the money had been made — though that it was honestly 
acquired there was no doubt. He had been a clerk in an office in 
Farafield first, then because of his good conduct, which everybody 
had full faith in, and his business qualities (at which everybody 
laughed), he was sent to London by. his employer, and received into 
an office there, from which he was sent to India, coming home 
with this fortune, but with worn-out health, to his native place. 
“Fortune? you can call it a fortune if you like. It is enough to 
live on,” John Trevor repeated, ‘ that is all I know about it. To 
be sure that is a fortune: for to have enough for your old days, and 
not to be compelled to work, what could a man desire more? But 
poor Bainy will not enjoy it long,” his old school-fellow added re- 
gretfully. Rainy was older by five or six years than John Trevor; 
but fifty-six does not seem old when one is drawing near that age, 
though it is a respectable antiquity to youth. Rainy’s sister had 
been a hard-working woman too; she had been a governess, and 
then had kept a school; then looked after the children of a widowed 
brother; and during her whole life had discharged the duties of the 
supernumerary woman in a large family, taking care of everybody 
who wanted taking care of. When her brother returned to Fara- 
field she had come to him to be his companion and nurse. He gave 
her a very nice home, everybody said, with much admiration of the 
brother’s kindness and the sister’s good-luck. They lived in Swallow 
Street, in one of the old houses, which were warmer and better 
built than the new' ones, and kept tw'o maids, and had everything 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


13 


comfortable, if not handsome, about, them. When poor Rainy 
died, Miss Rainy had a great deal of business to do which she did 
not at all understand. She had to refer to John Trevor perpetually 
in the first week or two, and she was not young any longer, nor 
ambitious, the good soul, and nobody had been so kind to her 
brother as John, and they had known each other all their lives. It 
came about thus quite naturally that they married. To be sure 
there were a great many people who said that Trevor married Miss 
Rainy for her money, as if poor old J ohn at fifty had been able to 
have his choice of all the lovely young maidens of the district. But 
this was not the case; neither was it for love they married. They 
married for mutual support and company, not a bad motive after 
all. If there had been no money in the case, they would have 
contented themselves in their loneliness; but as she had a house and 
an independence, and he an occupation, they “ felt justified, ” he 
said to all inquirers, in taking a step which otherwise they might 
not have contemplated. The consequences, however, were not at 
all such as they contemplated. Mrs. Trevor began, too late, with 
the energy of a workman who has no time to lose, the hard trade 
of a mother. She had one baby after another at headlong speed, 
losing them almost as soon as they were born, and losing her own 
health and tranquillity in the process. For some half dozen years 
the poor soul was either ill or in mourning. And at the end of that 
period she died. Poor Trevor saved his little Lucy out of the 
wreck, that was all; there were five or six little mounds in the 
church-yard besides Mrs. Trevor’s longer one, and so her kind old. 
maidenly existence was over; for before she married she had been 
universally acknowledged, even by her closest friends, to be an old 

“jfwas not till Mrs. Trevor was dead that it became fully known 
in Farafield that it was no humble competency that had been left 
to her by her brother, but “ an immense fortune.” Neither she nor 
her husband had known it till long after their marriage. Rainy had 
been a very clever business man, though his townsfolk all laughed 
at the idea, and some of his speculations, which had been all but 
forgotten, turned out at last to be real mines of gold. When it was 
known what a large, what a fabulous fortune it was, all Rainy s 
kindred and connections were roused as one man. They crowded 
round Trevor, most of them demanding their share, almost all of 
them fully believing that he had known from the beginning how 
matters stood, and had married (being so much in request, poor 
old John!) solely on this inducement; but some of them, on the 


TV UWT.i'NTn 


14 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

other hand, showed their admiration by leaving their own little bits 
of fortune to Lucy, already so liberally endowed. Both of these 
effects were natural enough Trevor held his own bravely against 
them all. Bainy had left his money to his sister; he knew best 
who deserved it, and it was not for him (Trevor) to annul or allow 
to be annulled his brother-in-law’s wishes, especially now that Lu- 
cilla Rainy (poor thing) had a child to inherit all that belonged to 
her He was not illiberal, however, though he was unyielding on 
the point of law and his child’s rights, and between him and the 
town -clerk, who was a person of great influence and much trusted 
in by the surrounding population, the crowd of discontented rela- 
tions were silenced. As for the others, those who insisted upon 
leaving their money to Lucy on the old and always popular princi- 
ple, that to those that have shall be given, Trevor allowed them to 
do what seemed to them good, and by this treatment it came to 
pass that the fortune of Lucy acquired several additions. “ Money 
draws money,” the proverb says. Thus this man of fifty-six, with 
all the restrained and economical habits of a life-time passed in la- 
borious endeavors to make the two ends meet, found himself at the 
latter end of his life with a great fortune and a motherless baby on 
his hands. The position in both ways was very strange to him. 
He gave up the school, generously bestowing the good-will, the 
furniture, and the remaining pupils on young Philip Rainy, the son 
of a cousin of his wife. He would not give away his child’s money; 
but he hoped, he said, that he would always be ready to serve an 
old friend with that which was his own. And then he gave him- 
self up to the charge of Lucy’s fortune. One thing that was to the 
credit of John Trevor, all Farafield said, was that he never gave 
himself any airs or committed any extravagances. He lived on the 
same income with which his wife and he had begun life, before the 
great windfalls came which made their little daughter one of the 
richest heiresses in England. He might have bought himself a 
great house, set up a carriage, tried to make his way into society. 
But he did none of these things. He lived on in the old way, with- 
out fuss or show, nursed Lucy’s fortune and rolled it into ever-in- 
creasing bulk like a snow-ball, and had Lucy nursed as best he 
might with no woman to help him. How it was that in this re- 
spectable and right-minded career there should have occurred the 
interval of folly in which little Jock came into the world, who can 
tell? The second 31rs. Trevor was a good woman enough, and had 
acted for some years as his housekeeper and the superintendent of 
Lucy’s health and comfort — a comely person, too, which perhaps 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


15 


liad something to do with it. But nobody ever dwelt upon this 
moment of aberration in old Trevor’s life, for his second wife died 
as his first wife had done, and there would have been an end of the 
incident but for little Jock. And nobody made much account of 
him. 

When the second Mrs. Trevor died, he gave up housekeeping. 
Perhaps he was afraid of other risks that might attend him in the 
same way. When a man is a widower for the second time it is im- 
possible to say what Bluebeard career he may not rush into. In 
this, as in so many other things, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute. 
After that there is no telling to what lengths you may go. So Tre- 
vor wisely withdrew from all hazards. He looked about him care- 
fully, and fixed upon Mrs. Ford, who was a cousin of his first wife. 
Ford was just then beginning to sigh and make comparisons be- 
tween his own lot and that of his employer, who was his contem- 
porary, and had just retired with, if not a fortune, at least a com- 
petency. ‘ Whereas I shall have to slave on to the end,” Ford said. 
One evening, however, his wife came out to meet him in high ex- 
citement to tell him what had happened. 

“ He will buy the lease for us,” she said, “ and set us up, and 
then he will take our lodgings. I never should have thought old 
Trevor would be so liberal; but I suppose it is for poor Lucilla’s 
Bake.” 

And next day they went and inspected No. 6 in the Terrace. Mr. 
and Mrs. Ford felt that it was a solemn moment in their career; 
they had no children, and they liked to be comfortable, but such a 
piece of grandeur as a house in the Terrace had never come within 
the range of their hopes; and Mrs. Ford liked the idea of the cook, 
and the housemaid, and the parlor-maid. Thus the bargain was 
made; and though the Fords had not found it quite so delightful as 
it appeared at first, yet the experiment was, on the whole, a suc- 
cessful one. The household got on as well as it was possible for 
such a composite household to do. Sometimes a maid would be 
saucy, and give Mrs. Ford to understand as she knew very well 
who was the real master; and sometimes Mr. Trevor would make 
himself disagreeable and find fault with the eggs, or complain of the 
tea. But barring these rufilings of the rose leaves, all went very 
well with the house. When she was not thinking of her house- 
keeping, Mrs. Ford kept a convenient little fund of misery on hand, 
which she could draw upon at the shortest notice, as to the position 
in which she and her husband would be left when Mr. Trevor 
died. Air. Trevor was now seventy, so that the fear was not uu- 


16 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


natural, and she was a woman full of anxieties who liked to have 
one within reach. Ford was above all this; he knew that they were 
not to be left with the lease of the house in the Terrace, and noth- 
ing more to trust to. For he had become Mr. Trevor’s confidant. 
It is not so touching a relationship as that which exists at the 
theater between the first and second ladies, the heroine in white 
satin and the confidante in muslin; but it is doubtful whether Til- 
burina ever made revelations more exciting than those over which 
these two old men wagged their beards — or rather their smooth old 
chins, well shaven every morning; for at their age and in their con- 
dition of life beards were still unknown. 

Mr. Trevor was sixty-five when the idea of making his will oc- 
curred to him first. Not that he had left Lucy’s fortune in any 
doubt up to that moment. A brief and concise little document ex- 
isted in his lawyer’s hands, putting her rights entirely beyond ques- 
tion; but it was years after the making of this first will that the 
idea occurred to him of shaping out Lucy’s life for her, and settling 
the course of years after he should have himself passed from the 
conduct of affairs. He was a man who had lived a very matter-of- 
fact life; but John Trevor was not a man without imagination. 
Even in the days when he had least time for such vanities, there 
had been gleams of fancy about him, and he had always been fond 
of entering into the circumstances of his pupils, and giving them 
his advice. They all knew that to have his advice asked was a 
thing that pleased him. And the management of a great fortune 
excites the mind and draws forth the imagination. He had to 
throw himself into all the combinations of speculative money- 
making, the romance of shares and coupons; and had acquired a 
sort of divination, a spirit of prophecy, a power of seeing what was 
about to pay or not to pay. Some men have this power by nature, 
but few acquire it; and no doubt it had lain dormant in John Tre- 
vor all the years during which, having no money to invest, he had 
not cared to exercise his faculties as to the best investment. 
When, however, he had made many very successful coups, and 
eluded many stumbles, and steered triumphantly through some dan- 
gers, a sense of his own cleverness and power stole into his heart. 
He felt that he was a man with great powers of administration, and 
instincts which it was a thousand pities not to make use of; and it 
suddenly came into his mind one evening, when he had just added 
several thousand pounds to Lucy’s fortune by a very successful 
and clever operation, that he might exercise these powers in a still 
more effectual way. Ah! if Lucy’s fortune had been a poor little 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


17 


trumpery bit of a fortune, not enough for the girl to live on, it 
would not have increased like this, it would never have doubled 
itself, as old Trevor’s money did! Even Providence seemed in the 
compact, and gave the advantage to the heiress, just as the richer 
people of the Rainy kindred did, who gave her their money because 
she had so much already. But this is a digression. As Mr. Tre 
vor thought over the whole question — and naturally Lucy’s fort- 
une, which was his chief occupation, was also the thing that took 
up most of his thoughts — he could not but feel a vivid regret that 
it would be impossible to outlive his own ending, and see how the 
money throve in Lucy’s hands. This seems a whimsical regret, 
but it is not an unnatural one. Could we only keep a share of what 
is going on, could we but be sure of seeing our ideas carried out, 
and assisting at our own dying and burying, and all that would 
follow after, death would be a much less dismal matter. To be 
sure, in most cases the penalty of this post-mortem spectatorship 
would be that we should not see our ideas carried out at all. But 
this was not what Mr. Trevor looked forward to. He would have 
been quite content to give up his share in the world, if he could 
only have kept an eye on the course of events afterward, and re- 
tained some power of suggesting, at least, what ought to be done. 
But even under the most favorable view, the hereafter for which 
we hope was not likely, Mr. Trevor felt, to permit any active inter 
vention of the disembodied spirit in the matter of stocks or shares, 
And it was a painful check to him to feel that, in a few years at the 
most, Lucy’s property and herself would be deprived of the inval- 
uable guidance which his own experience and intelligence would 
give. It was while this regret was heavy upon him that the idea of 
making a will suddenly occurred to him — not the ordinary sort of 
will, a thing which, as already indicated, was made long ago, but a 
potential and living instrument, by which out of his grave he would 
still be able to look after the affairs which had cost him so much 
trouble, and which had so prospered in his hands. The idea stirred 
him with the liveliest thrill of pleasure. He began the document 
the very next day, after laying in a stock of paper, large blue folio, 
lined and crackling, that the very outward form might be absolutely 
correct. And it was a very remarkable document; it was the ro- 
mance, the poem of John Trevor’s life. Sitting by himself among 
his coupons and account books, he had evolved out of his own con- 
sciousness, bit by bit, the ideal of a millionaire — nay, of a female 
millionaire — of an heiress, not in her usual aspect as the prey of 
fortune-hunters, pursued for love, not of herself, but of her money. 


18 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


The sentimental side of the question did not touch old Trevor at 
all. He thought of his daughter from a very different point of view. 
If he ever reflected upon a possible husband for her, it was with 
great impatience and distaste of the idea. He would rather, if he 
could, have settled for her that she should never marry. He wanted 
her to be herself, and not anybody’s wife. All his calculations were 
for her as she was, Lucy Trevor, not for Mrs. So-and-so. It seemed 
to him that the woman who would take up his sketch of existence 
and carry it out, would be something much more worth thinking of 
than a married lady of the ordinaiy level. She would be a very 
important person indeed, in her father’s sketch of her, making 
what he intended to be a very fine use of her money, and living for 
that end like a princess. He did not cut off any portion of her du- 
ties, because she was a woman; indeed he thought no more of that 
fact than in so far as it was this which gave him his chief certainty 
of being able to mold her, and make her life what he wished. He 
would not, probably, have thought it worth his while to take so 
much trouble had she been a boy; he would not have had the same 
faith in her, not the same feeling about her position. It would have 
been more a matter of course, not so interesting to the fancy. Per- 
haps a girl, in all cases, answers the purpose of an ideal better than 
a boy does. Old Trevor did not think much about the question of 
sex, but instinctively felt' that the girl was what he wanted, and it 
would be impossible to conceive an exercise of the imagination more 
exciting, more interesting. It was as near like creating a human 
being as anything could be. Of the character of Lucy — in the flesh, 
a slim and quiet gill of sixteen — her father knew not very much; 
but the Lucy who, day by day, developed more and more in the 
will, became a personage very distinct to him. The manner in 
which she was to conduct herself in all the difficulties she might 
meet, was the subject of his continual thoughts; until at last it 
seemed to the old man that he saw her as in a mirror moving along 
through the difficulties and perplexities of her life in which his own 
position would enable him to accompany her and help her with his 
advice — rather than that he was actually inventing the entire course 
of her experience for her. 

This was tne subject upon which Ford was Mr. Trevor’s con- 
fidant. He could not have lived all alone in this imaginary world; 
he had to consult some one, to tell some one of all the developments 
of his imagination as he traced his heiress through her life. And 
Ford, you may be sure, liked to know every particular, and was 
pleased to have a hand in the guidance of so rich a person, and to 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLANDo 19 

help to decide how so much money was to be spent. It made him 
feel as if he were rich himself. He made a very judicious con* 
fidant. He agreed in all Mr. Trevor’s ideas in the greater matters, 
and differed in trifles just enough to show the independence of his 
judgment; and, as it happened, there was something particularly 
interesting to Ford in the chapter of Lucy’s future life at which 
they had now arrived. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE WILL. 

“ I think I have got it now, Ford, I think I have got it now,” 
the old man said, rubbing his hands. “ But it has given me a 
great deal of trouble. Get yourself a chair, and sit down. I want 
you to hear how I’ve put it. I think, though I don’t want to be 
conceited, that this time I have hit upon the very thing. Sit down, 
Ford, and give me your advice.” 

Ford found himself a chair, and put it in front of the fire. His 
feet were close to little Jock on the hearth-rug, but neither did he 
pay the least attention to little Jock, any more than if he had been 
a little dog half buried in the fur. The child moved now and then, 
as his position became fatiguing. He changed now an elbow, now 
the hand with which he held his book, and sometimes fluttered the 
pages as he turned them; but these little movements were like the 
falling of the ashes from the grate, or the little flickers of the 
flames, and no one took any notice. Jock kept on reading his 
Shakespeare, wholly absorbed in it; yet as in a dream heard them 
talking, and remembered afterward, as children do, what they had 
said. 

“ Listen 1” said Mr. Trevor. He was so eager to read that he 
had taken his MS. into his hands before his confidant was ready to 
hear, and waited, clearing his throat while Lord took his seat. Then 
without a pause, raising his hand to command attention, he began 

* ‘ In respect to the future residence of my daughter Lucy, up to 
the moment of her coming of age, I desire that her time should be 
divided between two homes which I have selected for her. It is my 
wish that she should pass the first six months of every year in the 
house and under the care of Lady Randolph, Park Street, Lon- 
don—” 

Here Ford interrupted with an exclamation of astonishment. 
“ Lady Randolph!” he said. 


20 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


Trevor paused, and uttered his usual chuckle, but with a still 
livelier note of pleasure in it. “ Ah!’’ he said. “ Lady Randolph 
—that surprises you, Ford. We haven’t many titles among us, 
have we? But she’s a relation of poor Lucilla’s all the same; or at 
least she says so, ’ ’ he added, with another chuckle. ‘ ‘ There is 
nothing like money for opening people’s eyes.” 

“ A relation of Lucilla’s!” Ford’s amazement was not more gen- 
uine than the impression of awe made upon him by the name. “ I 
never knew the Rainy s had any rich relations. I suppose you mean 
Sir Thomas Randolph at the Hall, the lord of the manor, he tlia*- 
was member for the county when I first came here — the present Sir 
Thomas’s uncle — the — ” 

“ That will do,” said the old man. “ It’s not Sir Thomas, but 
it’s his wife, or his widow, to be exact. She says she is a relation 
— no, a connection of Lucilla’s — and she ought to know best. She 
has made me an offer to take charge of Lucy, and introduce her, as 
she calls it. I’ve been of use to my Lady Randolph in the way of 
business, and she wants to be of use to me. I don’t ask, for my part, 
if it’s altogether disinterested. It appears there was a Randolph 
that married beneath him; I can’t tell you how long ago. My lady, ’’ 
said old Trevor dryly, “ would not break her heart, perhaps, if an- 
other Randolph married beneath him, and into the same family 
too.” 

“But,” said Ford, “ that would be no reason for putting Lucy 
in her hands — a poor lamb in the way of the wolf.” 

“ One wolf is not a bad thing to keep off others; besides, my good 
fellow, I’ve taken every precaution. Wait till you see/* and he re- 
sumed his manuscript, with again a little preparatory clearing of 
his throat : 

“ The latter part of the year it is my wish that Lucy should spend 
in the house which has already been her home for some years, 
under the charge of her other relations, Richard Ford and Susan, 
his wife, who have been her fast friends since ever she can recollect, 
and to whom for this purpose I hereby give and bequeath the said 
house, No. 6 in the Terrace, in the parish of Farafield, in the hun- 
dred of — ” 

“Stop a bit!” said Ford feebly; he was overcome by his feel- 
ings. “‘Her fast ffiends,’ ” he repeated, “that’s just what we 
are. We’ve loved her like our own, that’s what we’ve always 
done, Susan and me. And as for Susan, many’s the time she has 
said, ‘ Supposing anything was to happen, or any change to occur, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


21 


what should we do without Lucy? It would be like losing a child 
of our own.’ ” 

** Then you approve?” Trevor said. He liked to receive the full 
expression of the gratitude which was his due, 

“ Approve!” said Ford. When a man without any natural dig- 
nity to speak of is moved tearfully, the effect is sometimes less 
pathetic than ludicrous; the good man did all but cry. “ It isn’t 
the property, Mr. Trevor, it’s the trust,” he said, with a restrained 
sob. “But one thing I’ll promise, it sha’n’t be a trust betrayed. 
We’ll watch over her night and day. There shall be no wolf come 
near her while she’s with Susan and me.” 

“ In moderation! in moderation!” said the old man, "waving his 
hand. “ I don’t want her to be watched night and day; something 
must be left to Lucy herself.” 

“ Ah!” said Ford, drawing a long breath. He had the air of a 
man who was ready to patrol under his ward’s window with a pair 
of pistols. “ Lucy has a great deal of sense, but to expose a girl 
to the wiles of a set of fortune-hunters is w T hat I would never do — 
and with that worldly-minded old woman. Ah! Mr. Trevor, you’re 
too kind, you’re too kind. Lady Randolph is not one that would 
step out of her own sphere for nothing. It isn’t any desire she has 
to be kind to you.” 

“ Her own sphere,” said Mr. Trevor. “ Money levels all spheres. 
And Lucy is an heiress, which makes her equal to a prince of the 
blood. But,” he added, with a chuckle, snapping his fingers, “ that 
for the fortune-hunters! I’ve put bolt and bar between them and 
their prey. It’s all done in black and white, and I don’t know who 
can go against it. Listen, Ford. 

“It is further my wish, and I hereby stipulate that my said 
daughter, Lucy, shall contract no marriage up to the age herein- 
after mentioned without the consent of the following parties, who 
will consider themselves as a sort of committee for the disposal of 
her hand, and whom I hereby appoint and constitute her guardians, 
so far as this subject is concerned; it being fully understood that 
this appointment does not confer any power or authority over her 
pecuniary concerns. The committee which I thus charge with the 
arrangement of her marriage is to consist of the three persons above 
mentioned, to wit, Dame Elena Randolph, Richard Ford, and 
Susan Ford, his wife, with the following assessors added Robert 
Rushton, Esq., town clerk of Farafield, my old friend; the Rev. 
William Williamson, of the Congregational Chapel, my pastor; and 
Mrs, Maria Stone, school-mistress, of the same place — ” 


22 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


“But, Mr. Trevor!” Ford ejaculated with a gasp. The para- 
graph he had just listened to took away his breath. 

“Well? out with your objections; let us hear them, ” said old 
Trevor, turning upon him, brisk and lively, and ready for war. 

“Objections! yes, I cannot deny it, I have objections,” said 
Ford, hesitating. “ Mr. Trevor, you know better than I do, you 
that have had such quantities of money passing through your 
hands; but — ” 

“Out with it,” said Trevor; he rubbed his hands. It was an 
amusement the more to him to have his arrangements questioned. 

“You can’t have taken everything into consideration. Six people 
— six, all so different. If she has to get all their consents, she will 
never marry at all.” 

“ And no great harm done either,” said old Trevor briefly, “ if 
that is all. Why should she marry? A woman who is poor, who 
wants somebody to work for her, that is comprehensible; but a 
woman with a lot of money, there is no reason why she shouldn’t 
stay as she is. What should she get married for?” 

Ford scratched his head; he did not quite make it out. This was 
a challenge to all his convi/ ’ons. It touched, he felt, the very first 
prerogative of man. Where were all true foundations of primal 
supremacy and authority to go to, if it were once set up as a rule 
that marriage was no longer necessary to womankind? 

“ It’s always a good thing for a woman to marry,” he said 
hoarsely. Many a radical opinion he had heard from his lodger, 
but never anything so sweeping as this. 

“Ah! you think so,” said old Trevor, “There was poor Lu- 
cilla, to go no further. She might have been alive yet, and enjoy- 
ing her good fortune, if she had not married me.” 

This disturbed still more the man of orthodox ideas; he’ could do 
nothing but stare at the old revolutionary. What might he not say 
next? 

“ I suppose,” he said, after awhile, “ poor Lucilla would never 
have hesitated; she was a woman who never considered her own 
comfort, in comparison with doing her duty.” 

“ Her duty, poor soul! how was it her duty to marry me? Poor 
thing, I’ve always been very sorry for her,” said Trevor. “ Women 
have hard times in this world. But a girl with a great fortune, she 
may be kept out of it.” Here he paused, while his companion sat 
opposite to him, his very mouth open with amazement It was 
indeed more than amazement, it was consternation which filled the 
honest mind of Bichard Ford. He did not know what to think of 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


this; was it a new phase of Radicalism worse than any that had 
gone before? He would have said it was Popery if he had not 
known how far from any ideas of that description his old friend 
was. While he sat thus half stupefied with astonishment, old 
Trevor took up his pen again hastily. “ Now I think of it,” he 
said, “Lucy belongs to the country, I don’t hold much with the 
Oliurch, but the Church should have a hand in it. I’ll add the 
lector to the committee. That will be only a proper respect.” 

“ The rector!” said Ford, pale with wonder, “ and Mr. William- 
son at the chapel, and Mr. Rushton, and Mrs. Stone, and me — ” 

“ You forget Lady Randolph,” said old Trevor, with a chuckle; 
“ that’s exactly as it ought to be, all classes represented, the right 
thing for a girl in Lucy’s position. To tell the truth,” he added, 
laying down his pen, “ I don’t know that there ever was a girl in 
Lucy’s position before. It’s a very fine position, and 1 hope she’s 
been brought up to feel all the responsibilities. I don’t want to 
brag of myself; but given an unusual situation like hers, and I 
think I’ve hit the right thing for it When you are born a great lady 
that’s different; but a girl with the greatest fortune in England, 
proceeding out of the lower classes — ” 

“I don’t see,” said Ford, aggrieved, “that we need call our- 
selves the lower classes; the middle — that is about what it is — the 
middle class — the strength of the country.” 

“Bosh!” said Trevor, “ she will go to Lady Randolph’s, and 
there she will see fine people, and no doubt she’ll be courted. There 
is nobody like them for knowing the value of money; and then she 
will come to you, Dick Ford, where she will see nobody, or else a 
few young clerks and that sort.” 

“ I assure you,” said Ford solemnly, “ I will take care that she 
shall see no one here; not a man shall enter the house, not a creat- 
ure come near her, while she is under my care.” 

“ That will be lively for Lucy,” said the old man, “ you num- 
skull! If she never sees any one, hovr is she to make a choice?” 

“Mr. Trevor,” said Ford, with a voice so solemn and serious 
that it trembled, “you would not wish your heiress to make a 
choice among the young clerks? Whom you say,” he added after 
a moment, in a tone of offense, “ she will meet here.” 

“ She is not my heiress, you stupid fellow. She is Lucilla’s heir- 
ess, poor Rainy’s heiress; what was he but a young clerk? Why 
shouldn’t she, if she likes, marry into her own class? That’s your 
.snobbishness, Ford. You will find nothing of that in me. If she 
likes a man who is in the same rank of life as Rainy w r as w T ken he 


24 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


began to make his fortune, or as I was (when I was that age), why 
let her marry him in Heaven’s name and be happy — that is,” said 
old Trevor, chuckling, “ if she can get her guardians to consent.” 

“Mr. Trevor,” said Ford hurriedly, with the tremulousness of 
real feeling, 4 ‘ I must protest, I must really protest. I am very 
conscious of the great kindness you are showing to us; but I can 
not sit quiet and see poor Lucy doomed to such a fate. She will 
never get all her guardians to consent. Put it into one person’s 
hands, whom you please, but for goodness’ sake don’t leave the- 
poor thing to fight with half a dozen; the end will be that she will 
never be married at all.” 

” And that won’t kill her,” said Trevor. “ Do you think I want 
her to marry? Not a bit, not a bit. ‘ She is better if she so abide.’ 
Don’t you know who said that? And I agree with St. Paul, what- 
ever you may do.” 

Now the idea of not agreeing with St. Paul was terrible to Ford;, 
it scandalized him utterly; for he was a Low Churchman, and much 
devoted to the writer of the Epistles. 

44 There never could be any question on that point,” he said, 44 if 
you ask me whether I believe in my Bible, Mr. Trevor; but I can 
not pretend that I understand that passage. There is more in it, I 
make bold to say, than meets the eye. There’s a type in it, or a 
similitude. I am not a learned man, I can’t tell you what it is in 
the original, but there’s more in it than we think.” 

Old Trevor laughed — he was quite as stanch a believer as his 
friend; but being a Congregationalist, he was naturally a little more 
at his ease on such subjects than even the lowest of Churchmen. He 
was not shocked by the idea that it might be possible not to agree 
with St. Paul, and he was not so sure of the hidden meaning. 

“ It is quite enough for me as it stands,” he said; “and as for 
Lacy’s marriage — ” 

Here there was an interruption that startled these old conspira- 
tors, Little Jocky, who had been lying as still as a mouse at their 
feet, with no movement except that of turning a leaf of his book, 
now began to stir. They had forgotten his very existence, as they 
often did. He had not been paying much attention to them, but 
probably he had heard other sounds more interesting to him, which 
they, on the other hand, had taken no notice of. At this stage he 
suddenly jumped up on his feet like a little acrobat, startling them 
greatly. He was not at all unlike an acrobat, with his long, slim, 
pliable limbs, and his faded suit of blue velveteen, a little short in 
the arms, and white in the seams. He got up with a bound, like a 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


thing on springs, immediately under Mr. Ford’s nose, who was much 
discomfited by the sudden movement. It was a thing that had 
happened before, but Mr. Ford had confessed that it was not a thing 
to which he could accustom himself. He was not used to children, 
and he was nervous; little Jock’s jump made him jump too. 

“ What is it? What is the matter?” he cried. 

But just then the door softly opened behind the screen, and a soft 
voice said, “ I have come home, papa, I have come to take Jock for 
his walk. Do you want anything?” 

‘‘Not that I know of, my dear, not that I know of; except your- 
self, and I shall have you by and by,” said the old man, his counte- 
nance expanding. She was not visible behind the high screen, but 
her voice seemed to throw a new element, something of softness 
and comfort into the air. 

“ At tea, papa. Come, Jock,” said the voice; and the little fel- 
low was gone almost before the words were said. The two old men 
sat quite silent, and listened to the steps going down the stairs. It 
was not an unusual incident, but it is scarcely possible not to feel 
an uneasy sensation when you have been discussing, much more 
deciding, the fate of another, and suddenly that other looks in and 
interrupts your secret combinations by the sound of an innocent and 
affectionate voice. Such unconsciousness is more trying to a con- 
spirator than any suspicion of his motives. Even when it is a pri- 
vate consultation between a father and mother on the expediency 
of sending a child to school, with what compunctions the sudden 
appearance of the unconscious victim overwhelms them! Old 
Trevor himself was moved by it, though he was not a likely sub- 
ject for penitence. 

“ She hasn’t much notion what we’re settling,” he said. “ Poor 
little Lucy! I wonder if it’s a good thing for a bit of a girl to have 
such a fate before her. But it is a tine position-^a fine position ; 
not many have such a chance, and I hope I’ve bred her up to un- 
derstand what it is.” 

‘‘ Poor child!” Ford breathed, in a sigh which was not unmingled 
with personal feeling; for notwithstanding the substantial advan- 
tages promised to him, and the gratifying character of the trust con 
ferred, there already began to appear before the good man, not too 
confident in his own firmness or force of character, a crowd of diffi- 
culties to come. How would he be able to resist if a fine lady like 
Lady Randolph took him in hand? And how would Susan stand 
out against cajoling? He sighed, beginning to foresee that it would 
not be unmixed happiness to be Lucy’s guardian even for six 


26 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


months in the year. But Lucy’s appearance, or rather Lucy’s voice 
had disturbed the sitting effectually. Mr. Trevor folded up his blue 
manuscript, and put it back into the blotting-book, and he lifted the 
“ Times ” from the little table on which it had been spread out, and 
once more arranged it on his knees. 

“ We’ll go into further detail,” he said, “another time. I’ll 
give you the help of all my lights, Dick Ford. You’ll want them 
to steer your way clear, and you can tell Susan there slia’n’t be any 
want of money. That is what she’ll think of first.” 

“ I hope, Mr. Trevor, that you don’t think money is the only 
thing we think of, either Susan or me.” 

“ It is a very important thing,” said the old man. “ I have been 
poor, and now I am rich, and it isn’t a matter that will let itself bo 
kept in the background. But you shall have plenty of money, tell 
Susan so, and for other things you must do your best.” 

“ I hope we’ll do that in any case,” Ford said devoutly, and he 
went down-stairs with nervous solemnity, holding his head very 
high. He was very conscientious even in the smallest matters, and 
it may be supposed that this tremendous call upon him, as soon as 
he began to realize it, w T ent to the very depths of that conscience 
which was alert and anxious in the minutest affairs. Old Trevor 
watched him disappear behind the screen, waited till the door had 
audibly closed behind him, then with a chuckling laugh resumed 
his newspaper. 

“I’ve given him something to think about,” he said, with a grin 
of mischievous satisfaction to himself. 



CHAPTER IV. 

SISTER AND BROTHER. 

From the two old men and their consultations it was a relief, even 
in that chilly and dismal day, to get outside into the free air, though 
it was heavy with the chill of moisture turning into frost. It was 
not a cheerful world outside. The sky was the color of lead, and 
hung low in one uniform tint of dullness over the wet world, with 
all its wetness just on the point of congealing. The common 
stretched out its low green broken lines and brown divisions of path 
to touch the limited horizon. Mrs. Stone’s school, the big white 
house which stood on the north side, had a sort of halo of mist hang- 
ing round it, and everything that moved moved drearily, as unable 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


27 


• 

to contend against the depression in the air. But little Jock Trevor 
was impervious to that depression ; it was the moment of all the 
twenty -four hours in which he was happy. Though he had lain as 
still on the rug as if there was no quicksilver at all in his little veins 
he could scarcely stand quietly now to have his little great-coat put 
on, which his sister did with great care. She was seventeen, a staid 
little person, with much composure of manners, dressed in a gray 
walking- dress, trimmed with gray fur, very neat, comfortable, and 
sensible, but not quite becoming to Lucy, who was of that kind of 
fair complexion which tends toward grayness; fair hair, with no 
color in it, and a face more pale than rosy. Ill-natured people said 
of her that she was all the same color, hair, cheeks, and eyes— "which 
was not true, and yet so far true as to make the gray dress the least 
favorable envelope that could have been chosen. There was no ir- 
regularity of any kind about her appearance; all was exact, the very 
impersonation of neatness; a ribbon awry, an irregularity of line 
anywhere, would have been a relief, but no such relief was afforded 
to the spectator. Whoever might be found fault with for untidiness 
in Mrs. Stone’s establishment, it never was Lucy; her collars were 
always spotless; her ribbons always neatly tied; her dress the very 
perfection of good order and completeness. She put on her brother’s 
little coat, and buttoned it to the last button, though he was danc- 
ing all the time with impatience; then enveloped his throat with a 
warm woolen scarf, and tucked in the ends. “ Now your gloves, 
Jocky, ’ * she said, and she would not move till he had dragged these 
articles on, and had them buttoned in their turn. ‘ * What does it 
matter if you are two minutes earlier or later,” she said, “ you silly 
little Jock? far better to have them buttoned before you go out than 
to struggle "with them all the way. Now, have you got your hand- 
1 kerchief, ancl has your hat been brushed properly? Well,” Lucy 
added, surveying him with mingled satisfaction in the result and 
reluctance to allow it to be complete, “ now we may go.” 

If she had not held him by the hand, there is no telling what 
Caracoling Jock might have burst into by way of exhausting the 
first outburst of exhilaration. The contact with the fresh air, 
though it was not anything very lively in the way of air, moved all 
the childhood in his veins. He strained Lucy’s arm, as a hound 
Strains at a leash, jumping about her as they went on. Almost her 
staid steps were beguiled out of their usual soft maidenly measure 
by the gambols of the little fellow. 

“Let’s have a run to the gate,” he said. “Oh, Lucy, come, 
rim me to the gate,” and he dragged at her hand to get loose from 


28 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


its hold. But when he escaped Jock did not care to run alone. He 
came hack to her, out of breath. 

“ I wish I could have a real run — just once, ” he said, with a sigh; 

0 then brightening up, “or a wrestling like Shakespeare. I’ll tell 
you who I’d like to be, Lucy; I’d like to be Orlando w r lien he had 
just killed that big bully of a man — ” 

“ Jock! you wouldn’t like to kill any one, I hope?” 

“ Oh, shouldn’t I!” cried the boy; “just to see him go down, 
and turn over on his face, and clinch his hands. Do they always 
do that, I wonder? You see them in the pictures all with their fists 
clinched, clawing at the ground. Well,” he added, with magna- 
nimity, “ he needn’t quite die, you know; I’d like him only to be 
badly hurt, as bad as if he were killed, and then to get better. I dare 
say,” said the child, “ Charles got better, you know, after Orlando 
threw him. It isn’t said that he was regularly killed.” 

“Is it a pretty story you’ve been reading, dear?” said Lucy, 
sweetly, altogether ignorant of Orlando. And she was not ashamed 
of her ignorance, nor did Jock know that she had any reason to be 
ashamed. 

“ That’s the best bit,” he said, impartially. “ The rest is mostly 
about girls. It was the Duke’s wrestler, you know, a big beast like 
— oh, I don’t know anybody so big — a drayman,” said Jock, as a 
big wagon lumbered by, laden with barrels, with one of those huge 
specimens of humanity (and beer) moving along like a clumsy 
tower by its side. ‘ ‘ Like him ; and Orlando was quite young, you 
know, not so very big — like me, when I am grown up. ” 

“You don’t know what you will be when you are grown up, you 
silly little boy. Perhaps you will never grow up at all,” said Lucy, 
somewhat against her conscience improving the occasion. 

Jock stood for a moment with wide open eyes. Then resumed: 

“ I sha'n’t be big or fat like that fellow — when I am about sev- 
enteen, or perhaps twenty- two, and never taught to box or any- 
thing. I would have gone in at him, ’ ’ cried Jock, throwing out his 
poor arm, with a very tightly clinched woolen glove at the end of 
it, “just like Orlando, just like this; and down he’d go, like, 
like — ” But imagination did not serve him in this particular. 
“Like Charles did,” he concluded, with a dropping of his voice, 
which betrayed a consciousness of the failure, not in grammar, but 
in force of metaphor. Jock’s experience did not furnish any par- 
allel incident. 

“You must never fight w r hen you grow up,” said Lucy. “ Gen- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS 1ST ENGLAND. 29 

tlemen never do; except when they are soldiers, and have to go and 
fight for the queen.” 

“ Does the queen want to be lighted for?” said Jock. “ If any 
fellow was to bully her or hit her — ” 

“ Oh,” cried Lucy, horrified, “ nobody would do that, but peo- 
ple sometimes go against the country, Jock, and then the people 
that are fighting for England are said to be fighting for the queen.” 

Jock’s mind, however, went astray in the midst of this discourse. 
There passed the pair in the road a very captivating little figure — a 
small boy, much smaller even than Jock, with long fair locks 
streaming down his shoulders, in the most coquettish of dresses, 
mounted upon a beautiful cream-colored pony, as tiny as its rider. 
What child could pass this little equestrian and not gaze after him? 
The children sighed out of admiration and envy when they saw 
him, for he was a very well-known figure about Farafield; but the 
elders shook their heads and said, “ Poor cliildl” Why should 
the old people say “ Poor child!” and the young ones regard him 
with such admiring eyes? It was little Gerald Ridout, the son of 
the circus proprietor. Nobody was better known. As he rode 
along, the most daring little rider, on his pretty little Arab, which 
was as pretty as himself, with, his long flowing curls waving, there 
could have been no such attractive advertisement. The circus trav- 
eled for a great part of the year, but its home was in Farafield, and 
everybody knew little Gerald. Jock fixed his glistening eyes upon 
him from the moment of his appearance — eyes that shone with 
pleasure and sympathy, and that wistful longing to be as beautiful 
and happy, which is not envy. There was nothing of the more 
hateful sentiment in little Jock’s heart, but because he admired he 
would have liked to resemble, had that been within his power. He 
followed the child with his eyes as long as he was visible. Then he 
asked, “ Do people who are rich have ponies, Lucy?” with much 
gravity and earnestness. 

“ Vefy often, dear, and horses too; but that poor little fellow is 
not rich, you know.” 

“ I should like to be him,” said Jock. 

“ A little circus-boy? to ride upon the stage, and have all the most 
horrid people staring at you?” 

“And jump through the hoop, and gallop, gallop, and have a 
pony like that all to myself. A — hj” Jock cried with a long-drawn 
breath. 

“ Would you like a pony so very much, Jocky? Then some day 


30 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


you shall have one,” said his sister in her tranquil voice. “ I will 
buy you one when I am rich. ’ ’ 

“ Are you soon going to be rich?” said the little boy doubtfully. 
Like wiser people, he preferred the smallest bird in the hand to a 
whole aviary in the dim and doubtful distance. But Lucy had not 
a very lively sense of humor. She knew the circumstances better 
than he did, and said, “ Hush! hush!” with a little awe. 

“ Not for a very long time, I hope,” she said. 

Her little brother looked at her with wondering eyes; but this 
mystery was too deep for him to solve. He had no insight into 
those deep matters which occupied his father’s time, nor had he the 
least notion that Lucy’s wealth depended upon that father’s death, 
though it had all been discussed with so much detail day by day 
over his dreaming head. 

When you are rich, shall I be rich too, Lucy?” he said. 

‘‘Iam afraid not, Jock; but if I am rich, it will not matter; you 
shall have whatever you please. Won’t that do just as well?” 

Jock paused and thought. 

“ Why shouldn’t I be rich too?” he remarked. It was not* said 
as a question; it was an observation. The fact did not trouble him, 
but en passant he noticed it as a thing which might perhaps want 
explaining. It was not of half so much importance, however, as 
the next thing that came into his head. 

“ I say, Lucy, do you think that boy on the pony has to go to 
school? What do you think he can be learning at school? I should 
like to go there too.” 

“ When you go, it shall be to a much nicer place,” she said, with 
energy. ‘ ‘ There is one thing I should like to be rich for, and that 
is for you, little Jock. You don’t know anything at all yet. You 
ought to be learning Greek and Latin, and mathematics, and a 
great many other things. It makes me quite unhappy when I think 
of it. I go to school, but it does not matter for me; and you are 
living all your time, not learning anything, reading nonsense on 
the hearth-rug. I could cry when I think of it,” Lucy said? She 
said it very quietly, but this was vehemence in her. 

Jock looked up at her with wondering eyes; for his own part he 
had no enthusiasm for study, nor, except for the pleasure of being 
with the circus boy, whom he vaguely apprehended as caracoling 
about the very vague place which his imagination conceived of as 
“ School,” on his pretty pony, had he any desire to be sent there; 
but it did not occur to him to enter into any controversy on the 
Subject. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


31 


44 Are you going up- town, Lucy?” he asked; “have you got to 
go to shops again ? I wish you would buy all your ribbons at one 
time, and not be always, always buying more. Aunty Ford when 
she goes out goes to shops too, and you have to stand and stare 
about, and there’s nothing to look at, and nothing to do.” 

” What would you like to do, Jack?” 

“Oh, I don’t know — nothing,” said the boy; “ if I had a pony 
I’d get on its back and ride off a hundred miles before I stopped.” 

44 The horse couldn’t go a hundred miles, nor you either, dear.” 

“ Oh, yes, I could, or ten at least, and if I met any one on the 
road I’d run races with him; and I’d call the horse Black Bess, or 
else Rozinante, or else Chiron; but Chiron wasn’t only a horse, you 
know, he was a horseman.” 

44 Well, dear,” said Lucy, calmly, “I wish you were a horse- 
man, too, if you would like it so very much.” 

“You don’t understand,” cried the child, “you don’t under- 
stand! I couldn’t be like Chiron; he had four legs, he was a man- 
horse. He brought up a little boy once, lots of little boys, and 
taught them. I say, Lucy, if Chiron was living now I should like 
to go to school to him.” 

“ You are a silly little boy,” said Lucy. “ Who ever heard of a 
school-master that had four legs? I wonder papa lets you read so 
many silly books.” 

“ They are not silly books at all; it is only because you don’t 
know,” said Jock, reddening. “ Suppose we were cast on a desert 
island, what would you do? You don’t know any stories to tell 
round the fire; but I know heaps of stories, I know more stories 
than any one. Aunty Ford is pretty good,” the little fellow went 
on, reflectively: “ she knows some; and she likes me to tell her out 
of Shakespeare, and about the 4 Three Calenders ’ and the * Genii 
in the Bottle,’ and that improves her mind; but if you were in a 
desert island what should you do? You don’t know one story to 
tell.” 

44 1 should cook your suppers, and mend your clothes, and make 
the Are.” 

“Ah!” said the boy with a little contempt; “bread and milk 
would do, you know, or when we shot a deer we’d just put him 
before the fire and roast him. We shouldn’t want much cooking; 
and the skin would do for clothes.” 

“You would not be at all comfortable like that,” said Lucy 
gravely, shocked by the savagery of the idea; 44 even Robinson 
Crusoe had to sew the skins together and make them into a coat; 


32 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 


and how could you have milk, ’ ’ she added, ‘ * without some one to 
milk the cow?” 

“I will tell you something that is very strange,” said Jock: 
y Aunty Ford never read * Robinson Crusoe;’ but she knows Chris- 
tian off by heart, and all about Mary and Christiana and the chil- 
dren. And she knows the history of Joseph, and David, and 
Goliath; so you can not say she is quite ignorant; and she makes 
me tell her quantities of things. ’ ’ 

“ You should not mix up your stories, ” said Lucy; “ the Bible is 
not like other books. About Joseph and David and those other — ” 
(Lucy had almost said gentlemen, which seemed the most respect- 
ful expression; but she paused, reflecting with a little horror that 
this was too modern and common a title for Bible personages). 
“ They are for Sunday,” she went on, more severely, to hide her 
own confusion; “ they are not like ‘ Robinson Crusoe ’ or the 
* Genii in the Bottle;’ you ought not to mix them up.” 

“It is Christian that is the most Sunday,” said Jock; “ she ex- 
plains it to me, and all what it means, about- the House Beautiful 
and the ladies that lived there. There is a Punch, Lucy! and 
there’s Cousin Philip; never mind him, but run, run, and let us 
have a good look at the Punch.” 

“ I mustn’t run,” said Lucy, holding him back, “ and I can not 
stand and look at Punch. If Mrs. Stone were to see me she never 
would let me come out with you any more.” 

“ Oh, run, run!” cried the little boy, straining at her hand like a 
hound in a leash. He had dragged her half across the street when 
Cousin Philip came up. This was the only other relative with 
whom Mr. Trevor had kept up any intercourse. He was the young 
man to whom the old school-master had made over his school, and 
he, too, like Lucy, was taking advantage of the half holiday. In 
Farafield, where young men were scarce, Philip Rainy had already 
made what his friends called a very good impression. He was not, 
it was true (to his eternal confusion and regret) a University man; 
but neither was he a certified school-master. He had greatly raised 
the numbers of old John Trevor's school, and he occupied a kind 
of debatable position on the borders of gentility, partly because of 
his connection with the enriched family perhaps, but partly because 
Sis appearance and manners were good, and his aspirations were 
lofty from a social point of dew. He had begun with a determina- 
tion to resist steadily all claims upon him from below, and to assert 
courageously a right to stand upon the dais of Farafield society; 
and though there may be many discouragements in the path of a 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 33 

young man thus situated, it is astonishing how soon a steady reso- 
lution of this kind begins to tell. He had been five years in old 
John Trevoi’s school, and already many people accredited him with 
a B.A. to his name. Philip told no fibs on that or any subject that 
concerned his position. “ When it was necessary,” as he said, he 
was perfectly frank on the subject; but there are so few occasions 
on which it is necessary to be explanatory, a modest man does not 
thrust himself before the notice of the world; and he was making 
his way — he was making an impression. Though he had been 
brought up a Dissenter like his uncle, he had soon seen the entire 
incompatibility of Sectarianism with society, and he had now the 
gratification of hearing himself described as a sound if moderate 
churchman. And he was now permanently upon the list of men 
who were asked to the dinner-parties at the rectory, when single men 
were wanted to balance a superabundance of ladies, an emergency 
continually recurring in a country town. This of itself speaks vol- 
umes. Philip Rainy was making his way. 

He was a slim and a fair young man, bearing a family resem- 
blance to his cousin Lucy; and he had always been very “ nice ” to 
Lucy and to Jock. He came up to them now to solve all their 
difficulties, taking Jock’s eager hand out of his sister’s, and arrest- 
ing their vehement career. 

“ Stop here, and I’ll put you on my shoulder, Jock; you’ll see a 
great deal better than among the crowd, such a little fellow as you 
are; and Lucy will talk to me.” 

They made a very pretty group, as they stood thus at a respectful 
distance from Punch and his noisy audience, Jock mounted on his 
cousin’s shoulder, clapping his hands and crowing with laughter, 
while Lucy stood, pleased and smiling, talking to Philip, who was 
always so “ nice.” The passers-by looked at them with an interest 
which was inevitable in the circumstances. Wherever Lucy went 
people looked at her and pointed her out as the heiress, and natural- 
ly the young man who was her relation was the subject of many 
guesses and speculations. To see them standing together was like 
the suggestion of a romance to all Farafield. Were they in love 
with each other'? Would she marry him? To suppose that Philip, 
having thus the ball at his foot, should not be “ after ” the heiress, 
passed all belief. 

But the talk that passed between them, and which suggested so 
many things to the lookers-on, was of the most placid kind. 

“ How is my uncle?” Philip asked. Old John Trevor was not 

his uncle, but the difference between age and youth made the 
2 


34 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN EH GLAND. 


cousinsnip resolvable into a more filial bond, and it sounded much 
nearer, which pleased the young man. “ May I come and see him 
one of these evenings, Lucy? I am dining out to-day and to-mor- 
row; but Friday. perhaps — ” 

“ How many people you must know!” said Lucy, half admiring, 
half amused; for young persons at school have a very keen eye for 
everything that looks like “ showing off.” 

“Yes, I know a good many people — thanks chiefly to you and 
my uncle.” 

“ To me? I don’t know anybody,” said Lucy. 

“ But they know you; and to be a cousin to a great heiress is a 
feather in my cap. 

Lucy only smiled; she was neither pleased nor annoyed by the 
reference, her fortune was so familiar a subject to her. She said, 
“ Papa will be glad to see you. But I must not stand here on the 
street; Mrs. Stone will be angry; and I think Jock must have seen 
enough.” 

“ Don’t knock my hat off, Jock. Have you seen enough? I will 
walk with you to the Terrace, ’ ’ said Philip, and the little family group 
as they went along the street attracted a great deal of interest. What 
more natural than that Philip should be “ nice ” to his young cous- 
ins, and turn with them when he met them on a half holiday? and 
it is so good to be seen to have relations who are heiresses for a 
.young man who is making his way. 


CHAPTER Y. 

AFTERNOON TALK. 

The children, as they were called in the Terrace, came home just 
in time for tea. Mr. Trevor had changed the course of his existence 
for some time past. He who all his life had dined at two, and had 
tea at six, and “ a little something ” in the shape of supper before 
he went to bed, had entirely .revolutionized his own existence by 
the troublesome invention of “late dinner,” which Mrs. Ford 
thought was the suggestion of the Evil One himself. His reason 
for it was the same as that of many other changes which he had 
made at some cost to his own comfort, but he did not explain to 
any one what this meant— at least, if he did explain it, it was to 
Lucy, and Lucy was the most discreet of confidantes. When she 
came in with her little brother the Fords were seating themselves at 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EHGLAHD. 


35 


the table in their parlor, on which were the tray and the tea-things, 
and a large plate of substantial bread and butter. Here Jock took 
his place with the old people, while Lucy went upstairs. She would 
have liked the bread and butter, too, but her father liked her to 
spend this hour with him, and he despised the modern invention of 
five o’clock tea, understanding that meal only, as the Fords did, 
who made themselves thoroughly comfortable, and had muffins 
sometimes, and a variety of pleasing adjuncts. Mr. Trevor was 
still sitting between the fire and the window when Lucy went up- 
stairs. She had taken off her hat and out-door jacket, and went in 
to her father a spruce little gray maiden, with hair as smooth and 
everything about her as neat as if she had just come out of a band- 
box. In Mr. Trevor’s rank of life there is no personal virtue in a 
woman that tells like neatness. He looked at her with eyes full of 
fond satisfaction and pleasure. He had. put away the “ Times ” 
from his knees, and now had a book, having finished his paper, 
which lasted him till about four o’clock, and then went down-stairs 
to Mr. Ford. The books Mr. Trevor read were chiefly travels. He 
did not think novels were improving to the mind; and as for history 
and solid information at his age, what was the use of them? they 
could serve very little purpose in his case : though Lucy ought to 
read everything that was instructive. He put down his book open, 
on its face, on his knee when his daughter came in. His eyes dwelt 
upon her with genuine pleasure and pride as she took the chair in 
which Ford had been sitting. She had some knitting in her hand, 
which she began to work at placidly without looking at it. Lucy 
with her blue eyes, her fair smooth hair, and her equally smooth 
gray dress without a crease, in it, looked the very impersonation of 
good order and calm. She looked at her father tranquilly with a 
pleasant smile. She was no chattering girl with a necessity of talk 
upon her. Even among the other girls at Mrs. Stone’s Lucy was 
never, as Mrs. Ford said, “one to talk.” She waited for what 
should be said to her. 

“Well,” said her father, rubbing his hands, “ and where have 
you been, Lucy, to-day?” 

“ Up into the High Street, papa.” 

“ I think you are fond of the High Street, Lucy?” 

“ I don’t know. The common is very wet, and Jock will run 
and jump. I don’t like it in this weather. The High Street is diy 
and clean — at least it is dry and clean in fronl of Ratcliff e’s shop. 

“ And there are all the pretty things in the windows.” 

“ I don’t look at the things in the windows — what is the good? 


36 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


You would let me buy them all if I wanted them,” said Lucy, 
quietly. 

‘'Every one!’' said old Trevor, with a chuckle. “Every one! 
You might have a new dress every day of the year, if you liked!” 

Lucy smiled; she went on with her knitting. This delightful 
possibility did not seem to affect her much — perhaps because it was 
a possibility. 

“We met the little circus-boy on his pony,” she said. “Jock 
thinks so much of him. Papa, you always let me have everything 
I want — might I have a pony for Jock? It would make him so 
happy.” 

“ No,” said old Trevor, succinctly. “ For yourself as many as 
you like; but that sort of thing is not for the child. No, nothing 
of that sort.” 

“ Why?” she said, with something which in Lucy was impatience 
and vexation. It was too slight a ruffling of the calm surface to 
have told at all in any one else. 

“ Because, my dear, Jock must not have anything that is above 
his own rank in life. What should he do with a pony? He is not 
a gentleman’s son to be bred up with foolish notions. It would be 
all the worse for him to find out the difference afterward. ’ ’ 

“But he is my brother,” Lucy said, “ and your son, papa. If 
he is not a gentleman’s son neither am I — How is he different 
from me? And do you think I can make such a difference when — 
when I am grown up — 

“ You mean when I am dead? Say it out. Isn’t that what I'm 
always thinking of? The little boy, my dear,” said old Trevor, 
gravely, yet with his familiar chuckle breaking in, “ is a mistake. 
He didn’t ought to have been at all, Lucy. Now he’s here, we 
can’t help it — we’ve got to put up with it; and we must make the 
best of him. We can’t send him out of the world because it was a 
.mistake his coming into it; but he must keep to his own rank in 
life.” 

“ But, papa, if you would think a little why should there be such 
a difference? I so rich — and if he is to have nothing — ” 

“He will be as w r ell off as he has .any right to be,” said old 
Trevor. “ I’ve laid by a little. Don’t trouble yourself about Jock. 
What have you been doing to-day? That is the thing of the greatest 
importance. I want to know all my little lady is about.” 

“We had our French lesson,” said Lucy, a little disturbed under 
her smooth surface; but the disturbance was so little that her father 
never found it out, “ and— all the rest just as usual, papa.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


37 


“ And cafi you understand what mounsheer says? Can you talk 
to him? I used to know a few words myself, hut never to talk it,” 
said the old man. His acuteness seemed to have deserted him, and 
turned into the most innocent simplicity — a little glow came upon 
his face. He was almost childishly excited on this point. 

“ A few words were enough for me — what did X want with 
French? — though things are altered now; and it’s taught, I’m told, 
in every commercial academy, and the classics neglected. That 
wasn’t the way in my time. If a boy learned anything besides 
reading and writing it was Latin; and I was considered very suc- 
cessful with my Latin.” 

“That is another thing, papa,” said Lucy; “don’t you think 
Jock should go to school?” 

Old Trevor’s face extended slightly. “ Have you nothing to say 
to me, Lucy, but about Jock?” 

“ Oh, yes, a great deal,” said the girl. She did not lose a single 
change in his face, though she kept on steadily with her knitting, 
and she saw it was not safe to go further. She changed the subject 
at once. “ Monsieur says I get on very well,” she said; “ but not 
so well as Katie Russell. She is first in almost everything. She is so 
clever. You should hear her chatter French — as fast! It is like the 
birds in the trees, as pretty to listen to — and just as little sense that 
you can make out.” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” said the old man, with a little impatience. 
“ There is no occasion for you to learn like that, Lucy. She has to 
make her living by it, that girl. I wonder now, you that are in so 
very different a position, why it’s always this Russell girl you talk 
about, and never any of the real ladies, the Honorable Miss Barring- 
tons and Lady — what do you call her? — and the better sort. It was 
for them I sent you to Mrs. Stone’s school, Lucy,” he said, with a 
tone of reproach. 

“ Yes, papa. I like them very well — they are just like me. They 
do as little work as they can, and get off everything they can. We 
had a famous ride — but that was yesterday. I told you about it. 
Lily Barrington’s horse ran away, or we thought it ran away; and 
mine set off at such a pace! I was dreadfully frightened, but Lily 
liked it. She had done it on purpose, fancy! and thinks there is 
nothing in the world so delightful as a gallop.” 

“ And you call her Lily?” said Mr. Trevor, with a glow of pleas- 
ure; “ that’s right, my dear. That’s what I like to hear. Not that 
I want you to neglect the others, Lucy; but you can always get a 
hold on the poor; no fear of them; I want you to secure the great 


38 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


ones, too. I want you to know all sorts. You ought' to with your 
prospects. I was saying to Ford to-day a girl with your prospects 
belongs to England. The country has an interest in you, Lucy. 
You ought to know all sorts, rich and poor. That is just what I 
have been settling,” he said, laying his hand on the blotting-book 
now closed, in which his papers were. 

Lucy gave him a little smile nodding her head. She was evi- 
dently quite in the secret of the document there. But she did not 
stop her knitting, nor was she so much interested in that future 
which he was settling for her so carefully as to ask any questions. 
Her little nod, her smile which had a kind of indulgence in it, as 
for the vagaries of a child, her soft calm and indifference bore the 
strangest contrast to his absorption in all that concerned her. Per- 
haps the girl did not realize how entirely her future was being 
mapped out; perhaps she did not realize that future at all. There 
was a touch of the gentlest youthful contempt for that foolish wis- 
dom of our fathers to which we are all instinctively superior in our 
youth, in her perfect composure. It amused him — though it was so 
odd that a man should be amused in such a way — and it did not 
matter any further to her. 

“ Mrs. Stone sent her kind regards, papa, and she will gladly 
come over and take a cup of tea any time you like.” 

“ Oh, she’ll come, will she? I want to tell her of something I’ve 
put in the will,” said old Mr. Trevor. 

This roused Lucy from her composure. She looked at him with 
a half-startled glance. 

“ You will tell — her — of that paper?” 

“ "Well, not much about it — only something that regards herself. 
You will be much sought after when I am gone. All sorts of peo- 
ple will be after you for your money; and I want to protect you, 
Lucy. It’s my business to protect you. Besides, as I tell you, 
you’re too important to have just a couple of guardians, like a little 
girl with ten thousand pounds. You belong to the country, my 
dear. A fortune like yours,” said the old man, now launched upon 
his favorite subject, “ is a thing by itself; and I want to protect you, 
my dear.” 

This time Lucy, instead of the smile, breathed a little sigh. It 
was a sigh of impatience, very momentary, very slight. This was 
the doctrine in which she had been brought up, and she would as 
soon have thought of throwing doubt upon the ten commandments 
as of denying that her own position made her of almost national 
importance. She was aware of all that; it was merely the reitera- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 39 

tion of it which moved her to the faintest amount of impatience; 
but this she very soon repressed. 

“ Is Mrs. Stone to protect me?” she said. 

“ She is to be one of them, my dear. You know I don’t wish to 
do anything in secret, Lucy. I wish you to know all my arrange- 
ments. If you came to think afterward that your father had taken 
you by surprise I — should not like it; and now I have got as far as 
where you ought to live — listen, Lucy,” said the old man. The big 
document in the writing-case was evidently his one idea. His face 
brightened as he took it up and spread out the large leaves. As for 
Lucy, she sighed again very softly. How the will wearied her! 
But she was heroic, or stoical. She made no sort of stand against 
it; and after that one soft little protest of nature, went on with her 
knitting, and listened with great tranquillity. Her father read the 
paragraphs that he had been consulting Ford about, one by one; 
and Lucy listened as if he had been reading a newspaper. It awoke 
no warmer interest in her mind. She had heard so much of it that 
it did not affect her in any practical way; it seemed a harmless 
amusement for her father, and nothing more. 

“ Do you think you shall like going to Lady Randolph, Lucy?” 

" How can I tell, papa? I don’t know Lady Randolph,” Lucy 
said. 

“ Ho; but that’s high life, my dear; and here’s humble life, 
Lucy. I want you to know both; and as for your marriage, you 
know — ” 

“ You do not want me to marry,” said the sensible girl, “ and I 
don’t think I wish it either, papa. But if I ever did, it would not 
be nice to have to go and ask all these people; and they never 
would agree. We might be quite sure of that.” 

“ Then you think I have been hard upon you? Always speak to 
me quite openly, Lucy. I don’t want to be hard upon you, my 
child — quite the other way.” 

“ Oh, it does not matter at all,” said Lucy, cheerfully, plying her 
knitting-needles. “ I don’t think it is the least likely that I shall 
e ver want to marry. As you have always told me, I shall have 
plenty to do, and there will be Jock,” she added, after a moment- 
ary pause. 

“You have a great many prejudices about Jock,” her father 
said, testily: “ what difference can he make? He has not so very 
much to do with you, and he will be in quite a different sphere.” 

“ Do you want me to have nobody belonging to me?” Lucy cried. 


40 


r RHE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


a sudden vivacity not without indignation in it, then subdued 
herself as suddenly. “ It doesn’t at all matter,” she said. 

“ And you remember,” said her father almost humbly, “ this is 
only till you are five-and- twenty. It is not for all eternity; you will 
have plenty of time to marry, or do whatever you please, after that. ’ ’ 
Lucy nodded and smiled once more. “ I don’t think I shall want 
to marry,” she said; but while she spoke she was making a quiet 
calculation of quite a different character. “ Jock is eight and I am 
seventeen,” she was saying within herself, “ how old will Jock be 
when I am twenty-five?” It does not seem a difficult question; but 
she was not great in arithmetic, and it took her a moment or two to 
make it out. When she had succeeded her face brightened up. 
“ Still young enough to be educated,” she added, always within 
herself, and this quite restored her patience and lier cheerfulness. 

“It will be very funny, ” she said, “to see the rector and Mr. 
Williamson ccnsul ting together. I wonder how they will begin; I 
am sure Mr. Williamson will put on colored clothes to show how 
independent he is; and the doctor — the doctor will smile and rub 
his hands.” 

“You forget,” said old Trevor, with a slight sharpness of tone, 
though he laughed, “ that such things have been as that I should 
outlive the doctor. He’s younger than I am, to be sure, but I 
would not have you to calculate on my death before the doctor. It 
might be quite a different rector. It might be a young man that 
would, perhaps, put in claims to the heiress himself. But I’ll give 
you one piece of advice, Lucy, beforehand. Never marry a parson. 
They’re always in the way. Other kinds of men have their occupa- 
tions; but a parson, with a rich wife is always lounging about. 
Your mother used to say so; and she was a very sensible woman. 
She had an offer from one of the chapel ministers when she was 
young; but she would have nothing to say to him. A man in slip- 
pers, always indoors, was what she never could abide. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think the rector would be like that, papa,” said Lucy; 
“ he doesn’t look as if he ever wore slippers at all — ” 

“ Well, perhaps, it is the other kind I am thinking of,” said Mr. 
Trevor, who had not much acquaintance with the class which he 
called “church parsons,” though his liberality of mind was such 
that he had brought up Lucy partially, at least, as a church woman. 
His conduct, in this respect, was much the same as it was in refer- 
ence to the distinctions of society. He wanted her to have her share 
in all — to be familiar alike with poverty and riches, and, as a kind 
of moral consequence, with church and chapel, too. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


41 


It was almost a disappointment to the old man that Lucy let the 
subject drop, and showed no further interest in it. He was a great 
deal more excited about her future life than she was. Lucy’s life 
was, indeed, to her father at once his great object and his pet play- 
thing. It was his determination that it should be such a life as no 
one had ever lived before; a perfection of beneficence, wisdom, 
well-doing, and general superiority. He wanted to guard her 
against all perils, to hedge her round from every enemy. Unfortu- 
nately, he knew very little of the world, the dangers of which he 
was so intent on avoiding; but he was quite unaware of his own 
ignorance. He foresaw the well-known danger of fortune-hunters;; 
but he did not perceive the impossibilities of the arrangement by 
which he had, he flattered himself, so carefully and cleverly guard- 
ed against them. In this respect Lucy had more insight than her 
father, in her gentle indifference. Her life was not a matter of 
theory to Lucy. It was not a thing at all to be molded and formed 
by any one, it was to-day and to-morrow. She listened to, without 
being affected by, all her father’s plans for her. They seemed a 
dream — a story to her, the future to which they referred was quite 
unreal in her eyes. 

"We met Philip, papa,” she said, after a pause, with her usual 
tranquillity. " He is always very nice to Jock. He put him upon 
his shoulder to see the Punch. And he says he is coming to see 
you.” 

“ You met Philip,” said the old man, “ and he is coming to see 
me? Well, let him come, Lucy. He is a rising man, and a fine 
gentleman — too fine for a homely old man like me. But we are not 
afraid of Philip. Let him come; and let us hope he will find his 
match when he comes here.” 

" You do not like Philip, papa? I think he is the only person 
you are — not quite just to. What has he done? He is always very 
nice to Jock, and — ” Lucy added, hastily, in a tone of conciliation, 
“ to me, too.” 

" Done?” said the old man, with a snarl in place of his usual 
chuckle. “ He has done nothing but what is virtuous. He has 
doubled the school, and he sets up for being a gentleman. Don’t 
you know that I have the highest opinion of Philip? I always say 
so__the best of young men; and he calls me uncle, though he is 
only my wife’s distant cousin, which is very condescending of him. 
Not to approve of Philip would be to show myself a prejudiced old 
fool, and—” Mr. Trevor added, after a pause, showing his old 


42 


THE GBEATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


teeth in yellow ferocity, not unmixed with humor, * ‘ that is exactly 
what I am.” 

Lucy looked at him with her peaceful blue eyes. She shook her 
head in mild disapproval. “ He is very nice to Jock — and to me, 
too, ” she repeated, softly. But she made no further defense of her 
cousin. This was all she said. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PHILIP. 

Philip Rainy was, as his relation had been obliged to avow, an 
excellent young man; there was nothing to be found fault with in 
his moral character, and everything to be applauded in his manners 
and habits. He had acquired his education in the most laborious 
way, at the cheapest possible rate, and he had used it, since he was 
in a condition to do so, in the most admirable manner. He was in- 
telligent and amiable as well as prudent and ambitious, and though 
he meant to establish a reputation for himself, and. a position among 
those who were considered best in Farafield, yet he never forgot his 
family, whom he had left behind; nor, though he did not think it 
necessary to brag that he had begun the world in the lowliest way, 
did he ever, when it was called for, shrink from an avowal of his 
origin, humble as that was. Why old Mr. Trevor should dislike 
him, it would be difficult t o say, or rather, though it might be easy 
enough to divine the causes, it would be almost impossible to offer 
any justification of them. Old Trevor disliked the young man be- 
cause — he was so altogether unexceptionable a young man. Every 
inducement that could have led an old man to patronize and en- 
courage a young one existed here, and' yet these very reasons why 
he should like Philip made his old relation dislike him. He was 
too good, and, alas, too successful. He had doubled the school in 
Kent’s Lane, which the old gentleman, distracted by other occupa- 
tions, had brought down very low, indeed; and this was something 
which it was rather hard to forgive, though it was worthy of noth- 
ing but praise. And he was Lucy’s cousin, on the side of the 
house from which the fortune came, and perfectly suitable to Lucy 
in point of age, and in almost every way. How much trouble it 
would have avoided, how much ease and security it would have 
given, if Philip had been placed in Lucy’s way, and an attachment 
encouraged between them! It would have been the most natural 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS II* ENGLAHD. 43 

thing in the world; it would have restored the fortune to the name, 
it would have enriched the family of the original possessor, it would 
have saved all the trouble of the will which old Trevor was elabo- 
rating with so much care. Therefore, it was that old Trevor de- 
tested Philip R£iny, or, at least, was so near detesting him that only 
Christian principle prevented that climax of feeling. As it was, 
with a distinct effort because the sentiment was wrong, the old man 
restrained his conscious dislike of the young one within the bounds 
of what he considered permissible hostility. But all he could do 
could not entirely control that fierce impulse of repugnance. He 
could not keep his voice from altering, his expression from chang- 
ing, when Philip Rainy’s name was mentioned. Perhaps at the 
bottom of all his anxiety about Lucy’s fortune, and his desire to 
shape and control her actions, was an underlying dread that Lucy’s 
fate might be lying quite near, and might be decided at any mo- 
ment before ever his precautions could come into effect. 

Philip himself had no conception how far the dislike of his uncle 
— as he called old Trevor, without being in the least aware that this 
of itself was an offense — went. He did not even know that it was 
only to himself that the old man was so systematically ill- 
tempered. It was seldom he saw old Trevor in the society of 
other people, and he took it for granted, with much composure, 
that the sharpness of his gibes and the keenness of his crit- 
icisms were natural, and employed against the world in gen- 
eral as well as against himself. Being a young man determined 
to rise in the world, it was not to be supposed that he had not 
taken the whole question of his family connections into earnest con- 
sideration, or that he was entirely unmoved by the consciousness 
that within his reach, and accessible to him in many ways not pos- 
sible for other men, was one of the greatest prizes imaginable, an 
heiress, whose soft little hand could raise him at once above all the 
chance of good or evil fortune, and confer upon him a position fur 
beyond anything that was within his possibilities in any other way. 
On this latter point, however, he was not at all clear; for Philip was 
young, and had not learned to know these inexorable limits which 
hem in possibility. He thought he could do a great many things by 
his unaided powers which he would have easily seen to be impossi- 
ble for any one else. He believed in occasions arising which would 
give scope to his talents, and show the world what manner of man 
it was which the irony of fate confined to the humble occupation of 
a school-master in a little country town; and he entertained no 
doubt that when the occasion came he would show himself worthy 


44 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


of it. Therefore, he was not sure that Lucy’s fortune could do 
much more for him than he could do for himself; but he was too 
sensible to ignore the difference it would make in his start, the great 
assistance it would be in his career. It would give him an ad- 
vantage of ten years, he said to himself, in the musings of that self- 
confidence which was so determined and arrogant, yet so simple; a 
difference of ten years — that stands for a great deal in a man’s life. 
To attain that at thirty which in ordinary circumstances you would 
only attain at forty, is an advantage which is worthy many sacri- 
fices; but yet, at the same time, if you are sure of attaining at forty, 
or by good luck at thirty-nine, the good fortune on which your mind 
is set, it is not perhaps worth your while to make a very serious 
sacrifice of your self-esteem or pride merely for the sake of saving 
these ten years. This was why Philip maintained with ease so dig- 
nified and worthy a position in respect to his heiress-cousin. She 
would make a difference of ten years — but that was all; and besides 
being a young man determined to get on in the world, he was a 
young man who gave himself credit for fine feelings, and independ- 
ence of mind, and generosity of sentiment. He could not, at this 
early stage of his existence, have come to a mercenary decision, and 
made up his mind to marry for money. He did not see any neces- 
sity for it; he felt quite able to encounter fate in his own person; 
therefore, though he did not refuse 1o acknowledge that it would be 
a very good thing to marry an heiress, and very pleasant if the 
woman with whom he fell in love should belong to that class, he 
had not proposed to himself the idea either of trying to fall in lovd 
with Lucy or attempting to secure her affections to himself. The 
idea of her hovered before his mind as a possibility — but there were 
many other possibilities hovering before Philip, and some more en- 
ticing, more attractive, than any heiress. Therefore he did not spoil 
his own prospects by perpetual visits, or by paying her anything 
that could be called “ attention ” in the phraseology of the drawing- 
room. His relations with her were no more than cousinly; he was 
very “nice;” but then he was even more “nice” to little Jock, 
who was not his relation at all, than to Lucy. It was part of his 
admirable character that he was fond of children, and always good 
to them, so that no suspicion could possibly attach to the very 
moderate amount of intercourse which was conducted on eo reason- 
able a footing. But the more it was reasonable, the more it was 
cousinly, the more did old Trevor dislike his child’s relation; he 
had not the slightest ground for fault-finding, therefore his secret 
Wrath was nursed in secret, and grew and increased. It was all he 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


45 


could do to receive Philip with civility when he came. He came in 
after dinner in a costume carefully adapted to please, or at least to 
disarm all objections, a compromise between morning and evening 
dress; he made judicious inquiries after the old man’s health, not 
too much, as if there was anything special in his solicitude, but as 
much as mingled politeness and family affection required. 

“I hope you are standing the cold pretty well, sir,” he said; 
“ spring is always so trying. I can bear the winter better myself; 
at all events, one does not expect anything better in December, and 
one makes up one’s mind to it.” 

“ At your age,” said old Trevor, “it was all the same to me, 
December or July; I liked the one as much as the other. But I 
think we might find something better to talk of than the weather; 
every idiot does that.” 

“ That is true,” said the young man, “ it is always the first topic 
among English people. With our uncertain climate — ” 

“ I never was out. of England, for my part,” the old man inter- 
rupted him sharply. “ English climate is the only climate I know 
anything about, I don’t pretend to be superior to it, like you folks 
that talk of Italy and so forth. What have I got to do with Italy? 
It may be warmer, but warm weather never agreed with me. ’ ’ 

“ I have never been out of England, either, ” said the young man, 
with that persistence in the soft word that turns away wrath, which 
is of all things in the world the most provoking to irritable people; 
and then he changed the subject gently, but not to his own ad- 
vantage. “I thought you would like to hear, uncle, how well 
everything is going on in Kent’s Lane. I am thinking of an assist- 
ant, the boys are getting beyond my management; indeed, if things 
go on as they are doing, I shall soon have enough to do managing, 
without teaching at all. I have heard of a very nice fellow, a Uni- 
versity man. Don’t you lliink that, on the whole, would be an ad- 
vantage? people think so much more nowadays — for the mere teach- 
ing, you know, only for the teaching — of a man with a degree.” 

“A man with a fiddlestick!” said old Trevor. “The question 
is, are you going into competition with Eton and Harrow, Mr. Philip 
Rainy, or are you the master of a commercial academy, that’s the 
question. The man that founded that establishment hadn’t got a 
degree, no, nor would have accepted one if they had gone on their 
knees to him. He knew his place, and the sort of thing that was 
expected from him. Oh, Surely, get your man with a degree! or go 
and buy a degree for yourself (it's a matter of fees more than any- 
thing else, I have always heard), and starve when you have got it. 


46 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN EKGLAND. 


But I’d like you to hand over Kent’s Lane first to somebody that 
will carry it on as it used to be.” 

“ I beg your pardon with all my heart, uncle,” cried the young 
man. “ I have not the least intention of abandoning Kent’s Lane. 
It’s my sheet-anchor, all I have in the world; and I would not alter 
the character you stamped upon it for any inducement. The only 
thing is, that so much more attention is paid to the classics now- 
adays — ” 

“ Curse nowadays, sir!” cried old Tremor, his countenance glow- 
ing with anger. Then he pulled himself up, and recollected that 
such language was far from becoming to his age and dignity, not 
to speak of his Christian principles. “ I shouldn’t have said that,” 
he added, in a subdued tone; “ I don’t want to curse anything. Still 
I don’t know what the times are coming to with all these absurd 
novelties. The classics ” (he had been boasting of his Latin an hour 
before) “ for a set of shop-keepers’ sons that want to know how to 
add up their fathers’ books! It’s folly and nonsense, that’s what it 
is. Even if you could do it, what's the advantage of snipping all 
classes out on the same pattern? It’s a great deal better to have a 
little difference. Women, too — you’d clip them all out like images 
in paper, the same shape as men. It's a pity,” he added, grimly, 

“ that your classics and your degrees don’t do more for those that 
have got them. Many an M. A. I’ve seen in my time tacked to the 
names of the biggest fools I’ve ever known.” 

“ Still it is not necessary to be a big fool, sir, because you are an 
M. A.,” said Philip, always mildly, but with a sigh. “ It is a great 
advantage to a man; I wish I had it. I know what you will say, 
better men than I have not had it; but just because I am not a bet- 
ter man — ” 

For the first time old Trevor broke into his habitual chuckle. 

“ Give him some tea, Lucy,” he said. “I suppose you’re one of 
the fashionable kind, and have your dinner when I used to have 
my supper. That’s not the way to thrive, my lad.” 

“ What does it matter whether you call it dinner or supper, sir?” 
said Philip; “ and, pardon me, don’t you do the same?” 

“It makes a deal of difference,” said the old man. “Parents 
like to hear that you have your tea at six o’clock, and your supper 
at nine, like themselves. They don’t like you to give yourself airs, 
as if you were better than they are. You’re a clever fellow, Philip 
Bainy, and you think you are getting on like a house on fire. But 
you’re a fool all the same.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 47 

“ Papa, I wish you would not be so uncivil, ” said Lucy, who had 
as yet taken no part in their talk. ” 

“ I tell you he’s a fool all the same. I kept Kent’s Lane a-going 
Tor thirty years, and I ought to know. I’ve taught the best men in 
the town. Oxford fellows, and Cambridge fellows, and all sorts, 
have come to me for their mathematics, though I never had a de- 
gree; and I eat my dinner at two, and my tea at six as regular as 
clock-work all the time. That’s the way to do, if you mean to keep 
it up all your life, and lay by a little money, and leave the place to 
your son after you. If Jock had been older that’s what I should 
have made him do; that is the way to succeed in Kent’s Lane.” 

There Was a little pause after this, for Philip, was a little angry 
too, and had not command for the moment of that soft word of 
which he made so determined a use; and at the same time he was 
resolved not to quarrel with Lucy’s father. He said, after a while, 
in as easy a tone as he could assume : 

“ I wish you would let me have Jock. He is old enough for 
school now, and whatever you want to do with him I could always 
begin his education; of course, you will give him every advan- 
tage—” 

“I will give him as good as I had myself, Philip, and as you 
had. Do you think I am going to take Lucy’s money for that 
child? Hot a penny! He shall be bred up according to his own 
rank in life; and by the time he’s a man, you’ll have grown too 
grand for the old place, and you can hand it over to him.” 

Philip opened his eyes in spite of himself. 

“ Then Lucy will be a great lady,” lie said, half laughing, “ and 
her brother a little school -master in Kent’s Lane.” 

Lucy, who was standing behind her father at the moment, began 
to make the most energetic signs of dissent. She made her mouth 
into a puckered circle of inarticulate “ No-os,” and shook her head 
with vehement contradiction. Just below, and all unconscious of 
this pantomime, the old man grinned upon his visitor, delighted 
with the opportunity at once of declaring his intentions, and of in- 
flicting a salutary snub. 

“That is exactly what I intend,” he said, “you have hit it. 
Even if it hadn’t been just, it would have been a fine thing to do as 
an example; but it is just as well. Is a fine lady any better than a 
poor school-master? Hot a bit! Each one in the rank of life that is 
appointed, and one as good as another; that’s always been my 
principle. I wouldn’t have stepped out of my rank of life, or the 
habits of my rank of life, not if you had given me thousands for it; 


48 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


not, I promise you,” cried old Trevor, with a snarl, “ for the sake 
of being asked to dinner here and there, as some folks are; but 
being in my own rank of life I thought myself as good as the king; 
and that’s why Lucy shall be a great lady, and her brother a little 
school- master, whether or not he’s in Kent’s Lane.” 

“But he shall not be so, papa, if I can help it,” Lucy said. 

“ You won’t be able to help it, my pet,” said her father, relapsing 
into a chuckle, “ not you, nor any one else; that’s one thing of which 
I can make sure.” 

The two young people looked at each other over his old head. 
They made no telegraphic signs this time. Philip was for the mo- 
ment overawed by the old man’s determination, while Lucy, the 
most dutiful of daughters, was mute, in a womanly confidence of 
somehow or other finding a way to balk him. She had not in the 
least realized how life was to be bound and limited by the imperi- 
ous will of the father who grudged her nothing. But Lucy ac- 
cepted it all quite tranquilly, whatever it might be — except this. 
When she went with her cousin to the door, she confided to him 
the one exception to her purposes of obedience. 

“ Papa does not think what he is saying; I never believe him 
when he talks like that. I to be rich and Jock poor! He only says 
it for fun, Philip, don’t you think?” 

“It does not look much like fun,” Philip said, with a rueful 
shake of his head. 

“Well! but old people — old people are very strange; they think 
a thing is a joke that does not seem to us at all like a joke. I will 
do all that papa wishes, but not about Jock.” 

“And I hope you won’t let him persuade- you to think,” said 
Philip, lingering with her hand in his to say good-night, <p that I > 
am neglecting my work, or giving myself airs, or — ” 

“ Oh, that is only his fun,” said Lucy, nodding her head to him 
with a pleasant smile as he went out into the night. 

She was not pretty, he thought, as he walked away, but her face 
was very soft and round and pleasant; her blue eyes very steady 
and peaceful, with a calmness in them, which, in its way, repre- 
sented power. Philip, who was, though so steady, somewhat ex- 
citable, and apt to be fretted and worried, felt that the repose in 
her was consolatory and soothing. She would be good to come 
home to after a man had been baited and bullied in the world. He 
had thought her an insignificant little girl, but to-night he was not 
so sure that she was insignificant, and Philip did not know anything 
at all about the will and its iron rod. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


49 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE WHITE HOUSE. 

The life of Lucy Trevor, at this period, was divided between two 
worlds, very dissimilar in constitution. The odd household over 
which her father’s will and pleasure was paramount, though exer- 
cised through the medium of Mrs. Ford, and in which so many 
out-of-the-way subjects were continually being discussed, all with 
some personal reference to the old man and his experiences and 
crotchety principles of action, occupied one part of her time and 
thoughts: but the rest of her belonged to another sphere — to the 
orderly circle of studies and amusements of which the central figure 
was Mrs. Stone, and the scene the White House, a large irregular 
low building on the edge of the common, which w r as within sight 
of Mr. Trevor’s windows in the Terrace, and had appeared, 
through all the mist and fog of those wintery days, with a kind of 
halo round its whiteness like that of a rainy and melancholy old 
moon, tumbled from its high place to the low levels of a 
damp and flat country. Mrs. Stone’s "was known far and wide 
as the best school for a hundred miles round, the best as 
far as education was concerned, and also the most exclusive and 
aristocratic. Lucy Trevor was the only girl in Farafield who was 
received as a day-pupil. Efforts had been made by people of the 
highest local standing to procure the admission of other girls of 
well-known families in the town, but in vain. And why Mrs. 
Stone had taken Lucy, who was nobody, who was only old John 
Trevor’s daughter, was a mystery to her best friends. She had 
offended a great many of the townspeople, but she had flattered the 
local aristocracy, the county people, by her exclusiveness; and* 
she offended both by the sudden relaxation of her rule on behalf of 
Lucy. The rector’s daughter would have been a thousand times 
more eligible, or even Emmy Rushton, wlioss mother had knocked 
at those jealous doors in vain for years together; and why should 
she have taken Lucy Trevor, old John’s daughter, who was no- 
body, who had not the faintest pretension to gentility? Lady Lang- 
ton drove in, as a kind of lofty deputation and representative of the 
other parents who had daughters at Mrs. Stone’s school, to remon- 
strate with her, and procure the expulsion of the intruder; but Mrs* 
Stone was equal to the occasion. She did not hesitate to say to the 


50 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


countess, “ Your ladyship is at liberty to remove Lady Maud when- 
ever you please. I dispense with the three months’ notice.” 

It was this speech which established Mrs. Stone’s position far 
more than her excellence in professional ways. A woman who 
dared to look a countess in the face, and make such a suggestion, 
was too wonderful a person to be contemplated save with respect 
and awe. Lady Langton herself withdrew, abashed and con- 
founded, protesting that to take Maud away was the last idea in 
her mind. And Mrs. Stone’s empire was thus established. The in- 
cident made a great impression on the county generally; and it 
nearly threw into a nervous fever the other mistress, conjointly 
with Mrs. Stone, of the White House, her sister Miss Southwood, 
called, as a matter of course, Southernwood by the girls, who stood 
by aghast, and heard her say, ‘ ‘ I dispense with the three months’ 
notice:” and expected nothing less than that the sky should fall, 
and the walls crumble in round them. Miss Southwood liked to 
think afterward that it was her own deprecating glances, her look 
of horror and dismay, and, above all, the cup of exquisite tea 
which she offered Lady Langton as she waited for her carriage, 
which put everything straight; but all her civilities would never 
have established that moral ascendency which her sister’s uncom- 
promising defiance secured. 

Miss Southwood was the elder of llie two. She Was forty-five or 
thereabouts, and she was old-fashioned. Whether it was by cal- 
culation, to make a claim of originality for herself, such as it was, 
or simply because she thought that style becoming to her, nobody 
knew; but she dressed in the fashions which had been current in 
her youth, and never changed. She wore her hair in a knot fastened 
by a high comb behind, and with little ringlets drooping on either 
cheek; and amid the long and sweeping garments of the present 
t era, wore a full plain skirt which did not touch the ground, and 
gigot sleeves. In this dress she went about the house softly and 
briskly, without the whistling and rustling of people in long trains. 
She was a very mild person in comparison with her high-spirited 
and despotic sister; but yet was gifted with a gentle obstinacy, and 
seldom permitted any argument to beguile her from her own way. 
She had, nominally, the same power in the house as Mrs. Stone, 
and it was partly her money which was put in peril by her sister’s 
audacity; but the elder had always been faithful to the younger, 
and though she might grumble, never failed to make common cause 
with her, even in her most heroic measures. As for Lucy Trevor, 
though she shook her head, she submitted, feeling that to suffer on 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


51 


behalf of an heiress was a pain from which the worst sting was 
taken out; for it was not to be supposed that a girl so rich could 
allow her school-mistress to come to harm on her account. Mrs. 
Stone was far more imposing in appearance. She was full five 
years younger, and she was not old-fashioned. She was tall, with 
a commanding figure, and her dresses were handsome as herself, 
made by an artiste in town, not by the bungling hands of the trade 
in Farafield, of rich texture and the most fashionable cut. She was a 
woman of speculative and theoretical mind, believing strongly in 
“ influence,” and very anxious to exercise it when an opportunity 
occurred. She had her ideas, as Mr. Trevor had, of what might be 
made of an heiress; and it seemed to Mrs. Stone that there was no 
class in the world upon which “ influence ” might tell more, or be 
more beneficially exercised. Her ideas on this subject laid her 
open to various injurious suppositions. Thus, when she took Lady 
Maud Langton into her bosom, as it were — moved by a brilliant 
hope of influence to be exercised on society itself by means of a 
very pretty and popular young woman of fashion — vulgar bystand- 
ers accused Mrs. Stone of tuft-hunting, and of paying special honor 
to the girl who was the daughter of an earl out of mere love of a 
title, an altogether unworthy representation of her real motive. 
And her sudden stand on behalf of Lucy took the world by sur- 
prise. They could not fathom her meaning; that she should have 
defied the countess, whom up to this time she had been supposed to 
worship with a servile adulation, on account of a little bit of a girl 
of no particular importance, was incomprehensible. It was known 
in Farafield that Lucy had a fortune, but it was not known how 
great that fortune was, and after much groping among the motives 
possible to Mrs. Stone in the circumstances, the country -town gos- 
sips had come to the conclusion that she aspired to a marriage with 
old John Trevor, and an appropriation to herself of all his wealth. 
This supplied a sufficient reason even for a breach with the count- 
ess. To be asked to Langdale, which was the finest thing that 
could happen to her in connection with Lady Maud, was, though 
gratifying, not to be compared with the possibility of marrying a 
rich man in her own person, and becoming one of the chief ladies 
of Farafield. This was how it was acounted for by that chorus of 
spectators who call themselves society, and Miss Southwood herself 
entertained, against her will, the same opinion. This suggestion 
seemed to make everything clear. 

A few days after that on which Mr. Trevor read to Ford the last 
paragraph which he had added to his will, Lucy tapped at the door 


52 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


of Mrs. Stone’s private parlor with her father’s message. The ladies 
were seated together in their private sanctuary, resting from their 
labors. It was a seclusion never invaded by the pupils except on 
account of some important commission from a parent, or to ask 
advice, or by order of its sovereigns. Lucy came in with the lit tie 
old-fashioned courtesy which Mrs. Stone insisted upon, and made 
her request. 

“ If you would come to tea to-morrow night. Papa is very sorry, 
but he bids me say he thinks you know that he can not come to 
you.” 

“ How is Mr. Trevor, Lucy?” 

Miss Southwood, who was looking at her sister anxiously, thought 
she asked this question by way of gaining, time. Could he have 
sent for her in order to propose to her, the anxious sister thought. 
What a very curious way of proceeding! But a rich old man, with 
one foot in the grave, could not be expected to act like other men. 

“ He is — just as he always is; very busy, always writing; but he 
can not go out, and if you would be so kind — ” 

“ Oh, yes, I will be so kind,” said Mrs. Stone, with a smile; “ it 
is not the first time, Lucy. Is he going to complain of you, or to 
tell me of something he wants for you?” 

“ I think,” said Lucy, “ it is about the will.” 

“Dear me!” Miss Southwood cried. “What can you have to 
do, Maria, with Mr. Trevor’s will?” 

Mrs. Stone smiled again. 

‘ ‘ He goes on with it, then, as much as ever?” she said. 

“ Oh, yes, almost more than ever; it gives him a great deal of 
occupation,” said Lucy, with a grave face. There were some things 
that she had it in her heart to say on this subject; she looked at the 
school-mistress anxiously, not knowing if she might trust her, and 
then was silent, fearing to open her mind to any one on the subject 
of Jock. 

“ Poor child! he is putting a great burden upon you at your age; 
the management of a fortune is too much for a girl; but, Lucy, you 
will always know where to find advice and help so far as I can give 
it. You must never hesitate to come to me, whatever happens, ” 
Mrs. Stone said. 

“Thank you,” said Lucy, in her tranquil way. She had read 
something in the school-mistress’s face, she * could not have told 
what, which sealed her lips in respect to Jock. 

“ Dear me!” cried Miss Southwood again, “ you are both very 
mysterious; I should think nothing was easier than to manage a 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


53 


fortune. It is when one has no fortune that life is difficult to man- 
age,” she said, with a sigh. 

‘‘The wonder is,” said Mrs. Stone, calmly ignoring her sister’s 
interruption, “ that your father does not carry out some of his own 
views, Lucy, instead of leaving everything to you. It would he in 
your favor if he would take a larger house, and get together an 
establishment more befitting your prospects; I think I shall suggest 
this to him. He has always been very civil in listening to my sug- 
gestions. A proper establishment, all set in order in his life-time, 
would be a great matter for you.” 

“ But, Maria, Maria!” cried Miss Soutliwood, “ think, for 
Heaven’s sake, what you are doing; think what people will say. 
That you should suggest such a thing would never do.” 

Mrs. Stone turned round and looked at her with scathing in- 
difference. 

* ‘ What do people say?” she asked, and went on without waiting 
for an answer. ‘‘You ought to be living as becomes your future 
position,” she said; ‘‘ the associations you will form at present, and 
the habits you are acquiring, can not be good for you. Thank 
Heaven you are here, my dear child, in a place which, however 
homely, is intended as a place of training for girls who have to oc- 
cupy high positions.” 

“ I don’t think it will matter for me,” said Lucy; " I shall never 
be a great lady, I shall only be rich. No one will expect so very 
much from me.” 

“ They will expect a great deal, and I hope my pupil will do me 
credit, ” said Mrs. Stone; and she rose up and kissed Lucy with a 
little enthusiasm. “ I agree with your father, I think there is a great 
deal in you, Lucy; but I don’t agree with him as to the best means 
of bringing it out. He thinks that you should be plunged into life 
all of a sudden, and a great call made upon you; but I believe in 
education; we shall soon see who is right.” 

“ Oh, I hope not,” cried Lucy, “ I hope not; for before you can 
know anything about it papa will have to be — ’ ’ 

“ Not if he takes my way, Lucy; he ought to take Holmwood, 
that pretty house near Sir Thomas Randolph’s, and give you a be- 
ginning; and I think he ought to do some of the things in his will 
which he is talking of leaving upon you; I will speak to him to- 
morrow night. Yes; you can say I will come; but do not think too 
much of these serious matters; go and amuse yourself with your 
companions, my dear. ’ ’ 

“Maria,” said Miss Soutliwood, when the door closed, “you 


54 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


thick yourself a great deal wiser than I am, but you must hear 
what I have to say. If you go and advise that old man to take 
Holm wood and set up an establishment, there will be but one thing 
that anybody can think. If you care anything for the opinion of 
the world, or for my opinion, for Heaven’s sake don’t do it, don’t 
do it! a woman in your position has need to be so careful. Of 
cpurse, it stands to reason that is what everybody will think.” 

“ What is what everybody — ? Your style in conversation is very 
careless,” said Mrs. Stone, with great indifference. But her coun- 
selor would not be put down. 

”1 will tell you exactly what will be thought,” she said, sol- 
emnly. “ What is the common talk already? that you mean to 
marry that old man. Why did you take up the girl, risking your 
whole connection — you that have always been so exclusive — a girl of 
no family at all! You must have had a motive — no one ever acts- 
without a motive; and perhaps if he is very rich, and you could be 
sure of carrying it out — But how do w T e know that he is really 
very rich? and most likely you will not be able to carry it out; and 
at your age to risk your reputation — oh, I don’t mean in any wrong 
way — but to risk your character for sense and good taste, and all 
that! Consider for one moment, consider, Maria, what the ‘ par- 
ents ’ would say, what the parents would have a right to say!” 

“ If you think that I am to be kept in order by a threat of what 
* parents ’ will think!” said Mrs. Stone. “Do you suppose I will 
ever give in to parents? Why, it would be our destruction. Bmt 
make your mind easy, I don’t mean to marry old Trevor, and he 
does not mean to ask me. Listen! you don’t know what you are 
talking about. That girl whom you think nothing of, that girl you 
are always taunting me about — and she is a very nice girl, as sim- 
ple as a daisy and as true — Listen, Ellen! she will be the greatest 
heiress in England one of these days.” 

Miss Southwood stood and listened with all her soul, her eyes 
and her mouth opening wider and wider, her imagination set sud 
denly on fire, for she had an imagination, and that of a most practical 
kind. The greatness of Lucy’s fortune had never been so plainly 
set before her. She was so much taken by surprise that she spoke 
with a gasp, as if all her breath and energy were thrown into the 
question. 

“ And wiiat do you mean to do?” 

“ I mean to manage her, if I can, for her own good, and for the 
good of her fellow-creatures,” cried Mrs. Stone, excited too. 
“ Power, that is what I have always wanted. I know I can use it 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EtfGLAITO. 


55 


Well, and Lucy is a good girl, good to tlie bottom of her heart. 
She will want to do good with her money; and money, money is 
power.” 

Miss Southwood listened, but she did not share her sister’s enthu* 
siasm. Her countenance fell into shades of disapproval and im- 
patience. She shook her head. 

“You were always so high-flown,” she said. “ I never saw any- 
thing come of these heiresses. Manage her! you ought to know by 
this time girls are not such easy things to manage. But there is a 
much better thing you can do — marry her! and that will be good 
for her and us.” 

Mrs. Stone looked at her sister with a smile which was somewhat 
supercilious. 

“That is, of course, your first idea; and how, if I may ask, 
would such an expedient be good for us? if I thought of good for 
us — which is a thing that never entered my thoughts — ” 

“ Because you have no family affection, Maria. I have always 
said it of you. You think of the girl more than of your own rela- 
tions. How is it possible,” asked Miss Southwood, severely, “ that 
you could have any hand in the disposal of an heiress and not think 
of Frank?” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

Lucy went home a little impressed by what Mrs. Stone had said. 
It liad'never occurred to her before to think of anything but her 
father’s will and pleasure in the matter, or to suppose that she had 
anything to do but to acquiesce in his arrangements; but when the 
idea was put into her head, it commended itself to her reasonable 
mind. If he were, at least, to begin to do some of the things which 
he had by his will commanded her to do, what an ease and comfort 
it would be! and she could not but think that it would be a relief to 
himself, as well as for her, could he be made, as Mrs. Stone sug- 
gested, to see it in this way. In the first place, it would obviate on 
his part all necessity for dying, which, at present, was the initial 
requirement, the one thing needful, before any of his regulations 
could be carried out. Why should he die? She could not but per- 
ceive, as she thought over the whole subject dispassionately, accord- 
ing to her nature, that from his own point of view it would be a 
mistake if his life were prolonged. * The whole scheme was based 


56 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH • ENGLAND. 


upon his death. So long as he did not die it was a mere imagina- 
tion. And why should this be? far better to get over this funda- 
mental necessity by changing the construction of his plan altogether, 
and begin to carry out his wishes himself. When they wei e sitting 
together in the afternoon, which was wet and dull, the idea took a 
stronger hold upon her, and it was when Mr. Trevor was actually 
writing down something new that had occurred to him, that her 
thoughts came 1 he length of speech. She looked up from her knit- 
ting, and he stopped, with the pen in his hand, and, looking round 
upon her, listened with a smile to what Lucy might have to say. 

“Why should you take all this trouble, papa?” she said, sud- 
denly. “ I have been thinking; and this is what I feel sure of, that 
it should all be altered. You are not ill, or likely to die. Instead 
of writing out all these orders for me, would it not be much better 
if you would put that paper aside and do the things you have put 
into it yourself?” 

He looked at her over the top of his spectacles with an air of con- 
sternation. 

“ Do the things myself! what things?” he said, then paused and 
pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazed at her almost 
fiercely with his small keen eyes. “ That paper!” he repeated; 
“ do you mean the will, my will, Lucy?” The tone in which he 
spoke was as if it had been the British Constitution which Lucy 
proposed to set aside. 

“ Yes,” she said. “ You see, papa, I shall be very young, I shall 
not have very much sense.” 

“ You have a great deal of sense, Lucy,” he said, mollified, “ far 
more than most girls. Providence has made you for the work you 
have got to do.” 

“ But, papa,” she said, “ I shall be very young; it will be very 
hard upon me to decide what is to be done with all that money, 
and to give and not to give. It will be very hard. How should 1 
know which are the right people? I should either want to give to 
everybody or to nobody. I should throw it away, or I should bo 
too frightened to make any use of it at all.” 

“ That will be impossible,” said old Trevor, with a nod of satis- 
faction; “ I have taken precautions about that.” 

“ Then I should give foolishly, papa.” 

“Very likely, my dear, very likely; every one has to pay for his 
own experience. It is a very dear commodity, Lucy; I can’t givo 
you mine, you must get it for yourself, and it has always, always 
to be paid for. There is no question about that.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


57 


“ But, papa, would it not be a great deal better — you who have 
this experience, who have paid for it and got it — instead of living 
quietly here as if you were nobody, to do it all yourself?” 

The old man laughed. 

“ There you have hit it, Lucy,” he said, “ there you have hit it, 
my dear. I live quietly, as if I were nobody — and I am nobody — 
that is exactly the state of affairs.” 

“ But,” she cried, with great surprise and indignation, “ if you 
mean nobody in family, then neither am I, but the money, the 
money is all yours to do with it whatever you please.” 

Once more he laughed, and chuckled, and lost his breath, and 
coughed before he could recover it again; and whether it was the 
laughing, or the coughing, or something else, Lucy could not tell, 
but the water stood in his eyes. 

“You are mistaken, Lucy, you are mistaken,” he said. “ You 
must understand the truth, my dear; neither am I any one to speak 
of, nor is the money mine. I have made alii tie in my life — oh, 
very little — a poor school-master’s earnings — what are they, noth- 
ing to make a fuss about. I’ve put my little savings away for Jock, 
you know that. A few thousand pounds, just as much as will give 
him a start in the world, if it is well taken care of.” 

“ Papa, you ought to give Jock the half,” said Lucy reproach- 
fully; “it is not fair that he should have nothing, and that all 
should come to me.” 

“ Listen to her!” said the old man; “ first telling me to spend it 
myself, and then to give half to the boy. Nothing of the sort, 
Lucy; I know what justice is, and I mean to do it. Do you think 
I could take poor Lucilla’s money to make that brat a gentleman? 
Why, it’s a kind of insult to her, poor thing, that lie’s there at all. 

I don’t say a word against his mother, Lucy, but I always felt I 
never ought to have married her. I was not like a young man, I 
was middle-aged even before I married poor Lucilla, and I had no 
business to have the other; it was a mistake, it was an affront to 
your poor mother. People say that you show how happy you’ve 
been with the first when you get a second, but I don’t go in with 
lhat. When I think of facing these two women ^nd not knowing 
which I belong to, I — I don’t like it, Lucy. Lucilla was always 
very considerate, and made great allowances, but there are things a 
woman can’t be expected to put up with, and I don’t like the 
thought. ’ ’ 

The humor and half-ludicrous pathos of this explanation, which 
was made between a laugh and a sob, was lost upon Lucy, who was 


58 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


altogether taken by surprise, and whose sense of humor was but lit- 
tle developed. She gazed at him with her eyes a little more widely 
opened than usual, not knowing what to say. Had she been a more 
experienced person, no doubt she would have consoled him with 
the reflection that husbands and wives, as we are told, do not stand 
exactly on the same footing in the next world. But she did not 
feel capable of saying anything in opposition to this matter-of-fact 
compunction; it has much in it which commends itself to the un- 
sophisticated. She only gazed at her father, seeing difficulties in 
the way of his exit from the world which she had never thought of 
before. 

"But that is neither here nor there,” he said, with his usual 
chuckle much subdued. " It is only to explain to you why I won’t 
give anything but my own savings to Jock. I have often told you 
so before, but now you know the reason why.” 

Lucy was silent for a time, pondering over all this; then she 
said, in the same serious tone. " But papa, I don’t see that what 
you have said is any answer to my question. I want to know why 
you should live here so quietly and save, and leave everything tO‘ 
me to do, when it would be so milch better to do it yourself.” 

" Some one has put this into your head.” 

"No; only something set me thinking — why shouldn’t you, 
papa, take a great house instead of this; and have carriages and serv- 
ants, and do all these things — giving and endowing, and building 
and setting up — that you want me to do — ” 

The old man laughed with less complication of sentiment than 
before. " I should make a fine country gentleman,” he said, " to- 
sit down and hob and nob with the Earl and Lord Barrington, and 
Sir John and Sir Thomas. What should I do with grand carriages, 
that never go outside these four walls, or with men-servants, when 
I can’t bear the sight of ’em? No, no! and I shouldn’t like it, 
neither. I can put it all down on paper for you; but 1 shouldn’t like 
to do it myself. I like to stick to the money, Lucy. I like to lay it 
up, and see it grow — that’s my pleasure in life. It makes me happy 
when the stocks go up. Interest and compound interest, that’s what 
pleases me.” 

"But, papa,” said Lucy, astonished, " that is all quite differ- 
ent;” she nodded her head toward the will always lying in the blot- 
ting-case within reach of his hand. " There it is all spending and 
giving; over and over again you say there is to be no hoarding up, 
no putting by.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


59 


“Ah!” said old Trevor, rubbing his hands with enjoyment, 
“ that is for you; that is a different thing altogether. When I’ve 
had my own way all my life, down to the last moment, why, then 
you shall have yours.” 

“ How can you call it mine?” she said. “ I don’t think I w T ant to 
have my own way— except in some things. I am very willing to 
do what you tell me, papa; but it will not be my; will — it will be 
your will. Why, then, shouldn’t you do it yourself, and have the 
pleasure of it, and not leave it to me?” 

“ The pleasure of it!” he said. And then paused and cleared his 
voice, and drew his chair nearer to hers. “ Look here, Lucy,” he 
said, “you have heard something about your mother — not very 
much; but still you have heard something. She was a good woman, 
a very good woman. She was not of my kind. In the way of 
money, she let me manage — she never interfered. But still she was 
not of my kind. She was a ’ woman that had little but trouble in 
this world, Lucy. She was what people call an old maid when we 
married. We were both old maids for that matter,” he added, 
with his usual chuckle, “ and she had always had a hard life. She 
was the old maid of the family; when anything was wrong, she was 
the one that was sent for. She was the one that nursed them all 
when they were ill. Father and mother — she closed both their 
eyes. She never had time to think what was going to become of 
her. When she came back to Farafield to live with poor Robert, 
nobody knew he was rich. It was the old story over again. She 
thought she was coming only to nurse him, and slave for him till 
he died. Your mother was a good woman — a very good woman, 
Lucy—” 

His voice was a little thick, and the tears sprung into Lucy’s eyes, 

“ Oh, thank you, papa; thank y r ou for telling me!” she said. 

“That she was,” he went on after a little pause, “ the best of 
women. And after we were married she had just as hard a life as 
ever. She was never well; and all your little brothers and sisters 
came — and went again. That’s very hard upon a woman, Lucy. 
A baby — who cares much about a baby? it does not seem anything 
to make a fuss about. There’s too many of them in the world; but 
to have them, and to lose them, is terrible work for a woman. We 
didn’t know about the money at first; and what’s money when 
things are going to the bad in that way? She never got what you 
may call the good of it. She was one of your giving people. Her 
hand was never out of her pocket as long as she had a penny in it: 
but she never rightly got the good of her money. In the first place, 


60 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


we didn’t know about it; and in the second place, why, you know 
there was me.” 

“You?” Lucy looked at him with a question in her eyes. 

“Yes,” said old Trevor, with a comical look of half real, half 
simulated penitence. “ I wanted to tell you all this some time, to 
show you your duty — there was me, Lucy, I told you I was fond of 
money; and more still when I wasn’t used to it. I clutched it all, 
and wanted more; ai d she left it all to me, poor dear. She never 
even knew how much it was — she let me do whatever I pleased. I 
didn’t even always let her have what she wanted for her poor folks, 
Lucy,” he added ruefully, shaking his head; but there was some- 
thing about the corner of his mouth which was not repentance. ‘ ' I 
was a beast to her — that’s just what I was; but, poor thing, she 
never knew — She thought to the last we couldn’t afford any 
more. She left all the money matters to me.” 

“ She ought to have had her money for the poor, papa.” 

“Yes, indeed; don’t I say so?” a half chuckle of triumph in his 
own successful craftiness mingled with the subdued tone appropri- 
ate to this confession. “And since she’s been dead, ” he added, 
with a touch of complacency, “I’ve behaved badly by poor Lucilla. 
I acknowledge that I have behaved badly; and that is just why I 
am determined she shall have her revenge — ” 

“ Her revenge!” Lucy looked at him aghast. 

“Yes, her revenge; you, Lucy, a girl that shall be brought up a 
lady, that shall have everything of the best; that shall do as she 
pleases, and give with both hands. Ah, Lucilla, poor thing, would 
have liked that; she would have ruined me with giving, ” he cried 
with a momentary tone of ccmplaint; “but you, Lucy, you won’t 
be able to ruin yourself. You will always have plenty, you will 
be able to cut and come again as people say. Isn’t that what I have 
bred you up for since you were a baby? No, no, it isn’t I that 
could do it (and I wouldn’t if I could), nor Jock that shall have a 
penny. It is you that shall be the greatest heiress in England, and 
do the most for the poor, as Lucilla would have done. Please God 
she shall have her revenge. ’ ’ 

These strange words, which, though they were mixed with so 
quaint an admixture of comic self-consciousness, had yet passion in 
them, an and odd kind of idealism and romance, passed over the 
placid head of Lucy without exciting any feeling but surprise. She 
was very much astonished. It was impossible* to her to understand 
the vehemence of feeling, generous in its way, though checkered 
with so much that was not generous, in her father’s tone, and she 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


61 


was totally at a loss liow to reply. They were alone, and when they 
were alone the conversation almost always turned on the will, which 
was not an enlivening subject to Lucy. Certainly the diversion she 
had made of their mutual thoughts from their ordinary channel had 
been more amusing; but il had been perplexing too. A little tea- 
table was set out in the middle of the room, the “ massive ” silver 
tea-service which had been one of the few gratifications got by 
Lucy’s mother out of her fortune shining upon it, in full display 
for the benefit of Mrs. Stone, who was expected. Mr. Trevor was 
in a garrulous mood; he had prepared himself to talk while he 
waited for his visitor, and Lucy’s questions had been all that were 
wanted to loosen the flood-gates. While she sat opposite to him, 
wondering, pondering, occasionally looking up at him over her knit- 
ting, taking into her mind as best she could the information she had 
got, but not knowing what to say, he proceeded as if unable to stop 
himself, with a little gesture of excitement, his hand sawing the 
air. 

“No, she never had much comfort in her life — hard work, sick- 
nursing and trouble, one dying after another — poor Lucilla; but all 
she didn’t have her girl shall have. She was a governess one while. 
Always be kind to governesses, Lucy, wherever you see them. 
Your mother was a real good woman. She would have honored 
any station; she had the most unbounded confidence in me; she 
never asked a word of explanation.” 

“Papa,” said Lucy, glad, in the disturbance of her mind, for 
any interruption, “ I think I hear Mrs. Stone.” 

“ Then go down and meet her,” said old Trevor, but he went on 
with his recapitulation of his wife’s virtues. “ Never asked a ques- 
tion, was always satisfied whatever I said to her—” 

Lucy heard his voice as she went down-stairs. She was still won- 
dering, not knowing what to make of it, but self-possessed in that 
calm of youth which nothing disturbs. It was odd that her father 
should speak so. He had never been so confidential, or talked of 
liihiself so much before; altogether it was strange, tempting her 
half to laugh, half to cry; but that was all. She went down quite 
composedly to meet Mrs. Stone, who was untying her white Shet- 
land shawl from her head in the hall. Lucy saw that Mrs. Ford 
was peeping from the parlor door at the visitor, with something like 
a scowl upon her face. Mrs. Ford distrusted and feared the school- 
mistress; she thought her capable of marrying old Trevor, notwith- 
standing his years, and of dissipating Lucy’s fortune, and perhaps 
raising up rivals to little Jock in his sister’s affections; for Lucy’s 


62 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


affections were all he had to look to, Mrs. Ford was aware, and she 
thought it was a wicked shame. 

“ I hope you are better than when I saw you last,” Mrs. Stone 
said, casting a quick glance around her. She knew everything very 
■well by sight in Mr. Trevor’s not very comfortable room, the white 
silky mats, the blue curtains, the little table groaning under that tea- 
service, which was easy to see weighed as many ounces as a tea- 
service could be made to weigh. How much more comfortable, she 
could not but think, the rich old man might have been made; but 
then he did not know any better, and Lucy did not know any 
better; they were used to it; they liked this as well as the best. 
What a blessing for Lucy that as long as she was young enough to 
be trained she had fallen into good hands! Mrs. Stone took the big 
casy-chair which Lucy rolled forward to the other side of the fire, 
and sat down after that greeting. She saw more clearly than Lucy 
did the excitement in old Mr. Trevor's eyes. What was it? An 
additional glass of wine after dinner, Mrs. Stone thought, a very 
small matter would be enough to upset an old man sedentary and 
crippled as old Trevor was. 

“ Never was better in my life,” he said; “ that is, I am getting 
old, and my legs are not good for much, as you know, ma’am; but, 
thank God, I have plenty to keep liiy mind occupied and interested, 
and that is the great thing, that is the great thing — at my age.” 

“ Always thinking about Lucy,” Mrs. Stone said. 

“Yes, always about Lucy. She is worth it, ma’am, a girl with 
her prospects is something worth thinking about. She has all the 
world before her, she has the ball at her foot.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Trevor, that is what we always think when we are 
young; everything that is good is going to happen to us, and noth- 
ing that is evil. We think we can choose for ourselves, and make 
our lives for ourselves.” 

“ And so she shall,” said old Trevor, “ ay, that she shall. I beg 
your pardon, ma’am, but when I speak of Lucy it isn’t merely as a 
little bit of a girl with her life before her. I think of the place she 
is to take, and the power she will have in her hands.” 

“ You mean her fortune, Mr. Trevor. Dear child, give me a cup 
of tea. You think it is not a bad thing to talk so much to her about 
her fortune?” 

“No, ma’am,” said the old man; “ on the contrary, the very best 
thing possible. It would be too great a weight for any one not used 
to it. You know it fills my mind night and day. I’ve got to pre- 
pare her for it, and put all straight for her as far as I can. There is 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 63 

many a great person that has not the weight on her shoulders that 
little thing will have, and that is why I sent for you.” 

“Asked me to come and take tea,” said Mrs. Stone, smiling. 
“ No sugar, my dear. Yes, no doubt we have to train her for her 
future responsibilities. I do it by trying to make her a good girl, 
* Mr. Trevor, and I think I have succeeded,” the lady added, putting 
her hand affectionately on the girl’s shoulder. Lucy, standing be- 
tween the two, with the cup of tea in one hand and a plateful of 
cake in the other, looked as completely unexcited by all this talk 
about her, and as unlike a personage of vast importance, as person- 
ages of importance often contrive to do. 

“ She is a good girl by nature,” said her father somewhat sharply. 
“ I want to tell, ma’am, of a trust I have appointed you to In my 
will along with others,” he added hastily — “ along with others. I 
have arranged that in case of Lucy’s marriage — ” 

“ Had not you better step down-stairs a little, my dear, and just 
see whether Jane is waiting in the hall?” Mrs. Stone said hurriedly. 
“ Perhaps Mrs. Ford would allow her, as it is so cold, to go down- 
stairs.” 

“You need not send her away,” said old Trevor grimly, “ she 
knows all about it. I don’t want her to be taken by surprise when 
I die. I want her to know all that is in store for her.” 

“But about her marriage, my dear Mr. Trevor; at seventeen 
these ideas come too quickly of themselves.” 

“I’ll tell you, ma’am, Lucy is not like common girls, ” he said 
testily; “ when a woman’s in a great position, she has to learn many 
things that otherwise might be kept from her. What had the 
queen to do, I would like to know? Settle all her marriage herself, 
whatever any one might think.” 

“ Poor young lady! I used to hear my mother say that her heart 
bled for her. But you don’t compare our Lucy with her majesty, 
Mr. Trevor! Dear Lucy! though she were the richest girl in Eng- 
land, it would still be a little different from the queen.” 

“ Madame,” said old Trevor solemnly, “ so far as I am aware, 
she will be the richest girl in England, and, therefore, surrounded 
by dangers: so I’ve devised a scheme for her safety, and I have put 
you on the committee. If you will wait a moment till I have got 
my spectacles I will read it all out to you here.” 

Mrs. Stone was the third person to whom that wonderful para- 
graph had been read. She listened with surprise, gradually rising 
into consternation. When she saw, with the corner of her eye, 
Lucy coming softly from behind the shelter of the screen, she made 


64 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


an imperative gesture, without looking round, to send her away. 
The girl obeyed with a smile. Why should she be sent away? she 
had already heard it all. 

She went outside and sat down on the stair to wait. The draught 
that swept up the well of the staircase did not affect Lucy; her 
blood, tho lgh it flowed so tranquilly through her veins, was young 
and kept her warm. She had given up easily the attempt she had 
made to influence her father, and now she half laughed to herself 
at the fuss they all made about herself. What were they making 
such a fuss about? The importance her father attached to all her 
future proceedings was to Lucy just about as sensible as Mrs. 
Stone’s precautions for preventing her hearing something she knew 
perfectly; but she could afford to smile at both. 

What did it matter? Lucy felt that everything would go on all 
the same, that to-day would be as yesterday, and life quite a simple, 
easy business, whatever they might say. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A GREAT TEMPTATION. 

The important communication made to her by Mr. Trevor made 
a great impression upon the mind of Mrs. Stone, but it was an im- 
pression of a confusing kind, disturbing all her previous plans and 
thoughts. It had been her intention, ever since Lucy was placed in 
her care, to take a decided part in the shaping of the girl’s life. Her 
imagination had been roused by the situation altogether — a young 
creature, simple, pliable and unformed, with no relations who had 
any real right to guide her, and with a great fortune — what might 
not be made of such a charge! It was not with any covetous in- 
clination to employ her pupil’s wealth to her own advantage that 
Mrs. Stone had determined by every means in her power to acquire 
an influence over Lucy. She was much too high-minded, too proud, 
for anything of the sort. No doubt there was an alloy, if not of 
selfishness, at least of self-regard, in her higher motive, but the 
worst she would have done would have been to carry out some pet 
projects of her own by Lucy’s help, not to enrich herself. She 
thought, perhaps, or rather, without thinking was aware, that her 
own importance would be increased by her influence over the heir- 
ess; but nothing in the shape of personal aggrandizement was pres- 
ent to her thoughts, even by inference. Mr. Trevor’s communica- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


65 


tion, however, disturbed her mind in the most uncomfortable way. 
When you are contemplating a vague influence of a general kind to 
be gradually and witli trouble acquired, it is demoralizing to have 
a definite power suddenly thrust into your hands; and it is hardly 
possible to refrain from exercising that power were it but for the 
sake of the novelty and unexpected character of it, en attendant the 
larger influence to be acquired hereafter. As Mrs. Stone sat in front 
of Mr. Trevor’s fire listening to him, with a ringing in her ears of 
sudden excitement, holding her cup of tea in her hand, w r ith exter- 
nal calm, yet feeling every pulse flutter, there suddenly appeared 
before her bewildered eyes, not written on the wall like Belshaz- 
zar’s warning, but hanging in the air without any material support, 
like an illuminated scroll, in big luminous letters, the name which 
her sister had suggested; the name of Frank — F RAN K — but big- 
ger, a great deal bigger, than any capitals, dazzling her eyes with 
the glow in them. Her first feeling was alarm and a kind of hor- 
ror. It was all she could do to restrain the outcry that rose to her 
lips. She started so that she spilled her tea, which was hot, so that 
she started still more; but upon this little accident she put the best 
face possible. 

“It is nothing, my love, nothing,’’ she said, When Lucy has- 
tened to her rescue; “only a little awkwardness on my part, and 
my old black silk won’t hurt.’’ She looked up with a smile in 
Lucy’s face, when lo! the appearance sailed into the air over Lucy’s 
head, and hung there magically, almost touching the girl’s fair 
hair. “ How awkward I am,’’ Mrs. Stone cried, looking quite pale 
and spilling more tea. She thought it was something diabolical, a 
piece of witchcraft; but it can not be supposed that it was an easy 
matter to drive it out of her thoughts. She scarcely knew wdiat 
happened afterward, till she had bidden the Trevors good-niglit, and 
found herself in the muddy bit of road which led to the White 
House, and got rid, in the darkness, of that startling legend. Was 
it diabolical, or was it a suggestion from heaven? Perhaps it would 
have been more near the mark if she had remembered that it was a 
suggestion from Miss Southwood, which she had crushed with in- 
finite scorn when it was made; but Mrs. Stone did not, or would 
not, remember this. The night was damp and foggy, and the lights 
of her own house appeared to her all blurred and hazy, with pris- 
matic halos round them, like so many sickly moons, and the inter- 
mediate bit of road was fitfully lighted by the lantern earned by 
her maid, which shone in the dark puddles and glistening wet herb- 
age. But Mrs. Stone was scarcely conscious where she was, as 


66 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

she picked her way lightly from one bit of solid path to another; 
her mind was so full that she might have been in Regent Street, or 
on a Swiss mountain. Frank! was it a diabolical suggestion, or a 
revelation from heaven? 

All was quiet in the White House when its mistress got in. It 
was ten o’clock, and the doves were in their nests, which, to be sure, 
is but an ornamental way of saying that all the girls had gone to 
bed. The light burned low in the hall, as it burned all night, for 
Miss Southwood thought light was “ a protection ” to a lonely house; 
and the open door of the drawing-room, in which it was the custom 
of the ladies to sit with their pupils after tea, showed something of 
the disorderly look of a room deserted for the night, notwithstand- 
ing the tidiness with which all the little work-baskets were put out 
of the way. Besides that open door, however, was another still 
shining with firelight and lamplight, where a little supper- tray 
had just been placed on the table, and a pretty silver cover and 
crystal decanter, not to speak of a delicate fragrance of cooking, 
showed that the mistress of the house was pleasantly provided for. 
No mystery was made of this little supper, which everybody knew 
was Mrs. Stone’s favorite meal; but all the girls had a curiosity about 
it, and the governesses felt themselves injured that they were not 
privileged to share its delights. Mrs. Stone, however, stoutly de- 
fended her privacy at this hour of repose. She sat down with a sigh 
of relief, opposite to her sister, who presided at the little white- 
covered table. 

“You are tired,” said Miss Southwood, sympathetically, “and 
that girl has forgotten as usual to put the claret to the fire. But 
this bird is very well cooked, and the bread-crumbs are brown and 
crisp, just as you like them. Why was it he sent for you? some- 
thing quite trifling, I suppose. I winder how parents can reconcile 
themselves to the trouble they give.” 

“It was not a trifle, it was about Lucy’s marriage,” said the 
other, “ or rather about preventing Lucy’s marriage, I think. I 
am to have a finger in the pie.” 

“ You ! Old Mr. Trevor is very queer, I know; is he going to * 
take up that odious French system, and arrange it without any ref- 
erence to the girl? But surely, Maria, you would never counte- 
nance an iniquity like that?” 

“ Iniquity! are you sure it is an iniquity? In some points of 
view I approve of it greatly. Do you think I could not choose bet- 
ter husbands for the girls than they will ever choose for them- 
selves? How is a girl to exercise any judgment in the matter? She 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. * 67 

takes the first man that comes, perhaps, or the first fool she thinks 
nice-looking, and what is there sacred in that?” 

“ I thought you were always the one to stand up for love,” said 
Miss South wood, ‘ ‘ I never pretend to know anything about it my- 
self.” 

“Oh, when there is love,” said Mrs. Stone, “that is another 
thing. But what do they know about love? It is fancy, it is not 
love; how should they know?” 

“I am sure /can’t tell,” answered the unmarried sister, very de- 
murely, “don’t ask me to give any opinion; you are the one that 
ought to know; and I have always heard you say, and understood 
you to uphold — ” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried the other, impatiently; “ when a thing has 
been said once, one is held to it forever, in this unintelligent way. 
You never consider how unlike one case is to another, or take the 
circumstances into account. Besides, all I said referred to a senti- 
ment already formed. I would never tear two young people 
asunder that were fond of each other, because one was rich and the 
other poor; that is a thing I could never be guilty of. But this is 
a very different matter. To take care that a girl like Lucy Trevor 
does not make a foolish - choice, or even,” said Mrs. Stone, with a 
certain solemnity and deliberateness of utterance, “ to direct her 
thoughts to some one eminently suitable — ” 

Miss Southwood looked at her with eagdr eyes. After the manner 
in which her suggestion had been received at their former inter- 
view, she did not venture to repeat it; but she knew by experience 
that a suggestion is somelimes very badly received to-day, and ac- 
cepted, as a matter of course, or even energetically acted upon, to- 
morrow; so she said nothing, but with eager though concealed scru- 
tiny watched her sister’s looks. Finding, however, that Mrs. Stone 
said nothing more, but pensively eat her chicken, she resumed, after 
awhile, her inquiries. 

“ I suppose Mr. Trevor has been consulting you,” she said, “ and 
I am sure it was the very best thing he could do. But, after all, 
Lucy is only seventeen, poor little thing! and a good girl, with no 
nonsense about her. Does he want to marry her off so young, the 
poor child?” 

“ I think,” said Mrs. Stone, reflectively, turning her chair to the 
fire, “ he does not want her to marry at all.” 

“ Oh!” cried Miss Southwood in dismay. She had not married 
herself, she professed at once, when the subject was mentioned, her 
entire incompetence to give any opinion; but the idea that a girl’s 


68 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


friends should wish her not to marry filled her mind with amaze- 
ment beyond words. The naivete of her conviction on this point 
betrayed itself in her unfeigned wonder. She could not believe it. 
“ I suppose,” she said, “ that he wants to keep the money in the 
family; and that means that he will marry her to her cousin, that 
young man, that Mr. Rainy.” 

“ Her cousin! you mean the certificated school-master, the Dis- 
senter.” 

“ Oh, he is not a Dissenter; we met him at the rectory; he is a 
very rising young man, and clever, and — ” 

“ You may save yourself, the trouble of enumerating his good 
qualities. I can’t tell how. you know them; but Lucy shall never 
marry the school-master. I will refuse my consent. ’ ’ 

“You will refuse your consent? and what 'will that matter?” 
Miss Southwood said. 

Mrs. Stone made no particular answer. She put her feet upon 
the comfortable velvet cushion before the fire, and smiled. She did 
not care to enter upon explanations, but she had made up her mind. 
The fire was bright, the bird had been good, and her modest glass 
of claret was excellent. She was altogether in a balmy humor, 
willing to enjoy the many comforts of her life, and to feel benevo- 
lently toward her neighbor. 

“I think you are right,” she said, “and perhaps I am preju- 
diced. He is a rising young man. We have met him two or three 
times at the rectory, so he can not be a Dissenter; but he is not a 
gentleman either. How should he be, being one of those Rainys? 

I shouldn’t wonder if it was to keep him out. ” 

“ If what was to keep him out?” 

“ By the way,” said Mrs. Stone, “ I have a letter to. write. Don’t 
let me keep you out of bed, Ellen. I am very much behind in fam- 
ily correspondence. Have any of the St. Clairs ever been at the 
White House since we came re? I can’t recollect.” 

“ Not one,” said Miss Southwood, with a beating heart. “ Not 
one; and I have often thought, Maria, considering all things, and 

that they have no father, poor things, and are not very well off 

and so nice, both sisters and brothers — ’ ’ 

“ One does not want so many arguments. Frank may come and 
pay us a visit if he likes,” said Mrs. Stone, with much amiability. 
But it was not till the morning, when she came down first, as she 
always did, and put the letter, which had been left on Mrs. Stone’s 
private writing-table, ready for the early post, in the letter-bag, 
that Miss Southwood had the satisfaction of seeing that it was ad- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IV ENGLAND. 


69 


dressed to the favorite nephew, whose name she had not ventured 
to pronounce for a second time. Mrs. Stone had not heen inatten- 
tive to the vision, the intimation, whether from heaven or the other 
place. He was to come and try hi^ fortune in those lists. 

Miss Soutliwood went about her occupations all day as if she trod 
on air; but she kept her lips tightly shut, and never asked a ques- 
tion. She was discretion itself. As for Mrs. Stone, after she had 
done it, many doubts suggested themselves. It was not for .nothing, 
not by mere vice of temperament that she obeyed her own impulses 
so readily. Like all impulsive people, she was subject to cold fits 
as well as hot; but like many other impulsive people, she had 
learned that it was her best policy to obey the first imperious 
movement of nature. The thing was done, at all events, before the 
struggle of judgment began. And the answer she made to her own 
objections was a mysterious one. ‘ ‘ Why not I as well as Lady 
Randolph?” was what she said to herself. 


CHAPTER X. 

CHATTER. 

"Do you know,” said Katie Russell, " there is a gentleman in 
the house? None of us have seen him; but he came yesterday. He 
is young, and tall, and nice-looking. He is their nephew. Made- 
moiselle says it is quite improper. Of course she oughtn’t to say so; 
and the girls don’t know what to think; for you know it is queer.” 

" Why is it queer?” said Lucy. " If he is their nephew, he may 
surely come to see them. If they had a son, he would live here.” 

" I don’t think so,” said Katie promptly. " Oh, no! if they had 
a dozen sons, not while the girls are here. It would never do. I 
have been at other schools, and I know. I have spent my life at 
schools, I think,” the girl said, with an impatient shrug of her 
shoulders, ' * and I know mademoiselle is quite right, though she 
oughtn’t to say so. I wonder, Lucy, if I will be as governessy 
when I am old? They almost always are.” 

Lucy could not follow this quick digression. She gazed at her 
friend with wondering eyes. "You always jump so,” she said. 
“ Which am I to answer — about the gentleman, or about — ” 

" Oh, never mind the gentleman. I only told you — it can’t mat- 
ter very much to me,” said Katie. " It is for Maud and Lily, and 
girls of that set, that it is not right, or you — Is it true that you 


70 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


are to have a great fortune, Lucy? I always wanted to ask you, 
but I did not like — ” 

“Yes, I believe so,” said Lucy quietly; “why shouldn’t you 
like? Papa takes a great deal of trouble about it; but it does not 
matter so much to me. One is just the same one’s self, whether 
one is rich or poor; it will give a great deal of trouble. So I don’t 
care for it for my part. ” 

“ Oh, I should care for it,” cried Katie. “ I should not mind the 
trouble. How delightful it must be to be really, really rich! I 
should give — I should do — oh, I don’t know what I shouldn’t do! 
The use of being rich, ’ ’ Katie added sententiously, ‘ ‘ is that you can 
do as you please — go where you please, be as kind to everybody as 
you please; help people, enjoy yourself, buy everything you like, 
and yet always have something. Oh,” she said, clasping her 
hands, “ to have to think and think whether you can buy yourself 
a pair of gloves — not to be able to get a cab when your mother is 
tired; and to grow old, and to grow governessy, like mademoiselle — ” 

“ Mademoiselle is very nice, Katie. Don’t say anything against 
her. ’ ’ 

“ /say anything against her! I adore her! but she is governessy, 
how can she help it, poor old darling? Her mind is full of the girls’ 
little ways, and what they mean by this and by that, Lucy,” said 
the girl, stopping short to give greater emphasis to her words. ‘ ‘ If 
we ever see each other when I am an old governess like made- 
moiselle — be sure you remember to tell me when you see me worry- 
ing, that the girls mean nothing by it — nothing! This is the 21st of 
February. It is my birthday — I am nineteen. Tell me to recollect 
that I said they meant nothing — and that it’s true.” 

“ Are you really nineteen to-day?” said Lucy. “ Older than I — ” 

“More than a year older. I wonder,” said Katie, with that 
patronage and superiority which the poor often show to the rich, 
“ whether, when you are fifty, you will know as much of the world 
as I do now?” 

Lucy’s companion was the governess-pupil, the one among the 
band of girls whose society her father had counseled her not to 
seek. Perhaps there was something of the perversity of youth in 
the preference which, notwithstanding this advice, Lucy felt for the 
girl whose friendship old Mr. Trevor had decided could be of no 
use whatever to her. Lucy was not nearly so clever as Katie Rus- 
sell, who was already a great help in the school, and earning the 
lessons which she shared with the more advanced pupils. But Lucy 
was by no means so sure of her inferiority in point of experience as 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


71 


her companion was. She knew, if not the expedients of poverty, 
yet of economy through Mrs. Ford’s example, and she knew many 
details of a lower level of existence, lower than anything Katie was 
acquainted with; and even the shadow of her own future power 
which had lain upon her from her childhood had stood in the stead 
of knowledge to Lucy, teaching her many things; but she was a 
quiet person, thinking much more than she spoke; and she made 
no reply to this imputation of ignorance, though she thought it a 
mistake. She replied, with a little closer pressure of her friend’s 
arm, 44 Why are you so sure of being an old governess? You will 
marry — most likely the first of all of us.” 

“Oli, no, no; don’t you know there are a million more women 
in England than men? It iff in all the papers. Some of us will 
marry — you, for instance; but there must be a proportion — say five 
out of twenty, that’s not much,” said Katie, knitting her soft 
brows, 44 who never will, and I shall be one of them. For fun,” 
she said, throwing gravity to the winds, “let us guess who llie 
other four will be.” 

“Me,” said Lucy, with a gentle composure and indifference 
alike to matrimony and to grammar. “ I think that is what papa 
would like best — ’ ’ 

“ That is absurd,” said Katie; “ you! You will have a hundred 
proposals before you are out a year. You will be the very first.” 

“ Put me down, however,” Lucy repeated. “It will be rather 
a good thing to be kept from getting married, if it is as you say. It 
will help to set the balance straight. There will be my gentleman 
for one of you.” 

44 You do not mean that you are to be kept from marrying,” Katie 
cried, aghast. This made a still greater impression on her mind than 
it had done on Miss Southwood’s, and it suggested to her a sudden 
chivalrous idea of rescue. Katie too had a Frank, a cousin, be- 
tween wnom and herself there had existed from the earliest times 
a baby tenderness. If ever she was married, Katie had tacitly con- 
cluded that he would be “ the gentleman.” They might set up-a 
school together; they might work together in various ways. It was 
a vague probability, yet one in which most of the light of Katie’s 
future lay. But suddenly it flashed upon her, all in a moment, 
what a chance, what an opening was this for any man. Frank was 
poor; they were all poor; but if he could be persuaded to step in 
and save Lucy from the celibacy to which she seemed to think her- 
self condemned, Frank’s fortune would be made. It was the basest 
calculation in the world; and yet nothing could have been more in- 


72 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

nocent— nay, geneious. It blanched Katie’s cheeks for the mo- 
ment, but filled her mind with a whirl of thoughts. What a thing 
it would be for him and all the family! If the dream should come 
to pass, Katie felt that she herself might give in at once, and make 
up her mind to grow old and governessy like mademoiselle; but 
what did that matter, she asked herself heroically. For a second, 
indeed, she paused to think whether her brother Bertie might not 
answer the purpose without costing herself so much; but antici- 
pated sacrifice is the purest delight of misery at nineteen, and she 
rather preferred to think that this great advantage to her cousin and 
her friend would be purchased at the cost of her happiness. And 
Frank himself might not like the idea at first; her great consolation 
was that it was almost certain Frank would not like it. But he 
must learn to subdue his inclinations, she thought, proudly; would 
not she do so for his sake? If other people were content to make 
that sacrifice, why should not he? And what a difference it would 
make, if a stream of comfort — of money and all that money can 
buy, ease of mind and freedom from debt, and power to do what 
one would — came suddenly pouring into the family, setting every- 
thing right that was wrong, and smoothing away all difficulties! 
To despise money is a fine thing; but how few can do it! Katie did 
not despise it at all. She forgot her companion while she walked 
on dreamily by her side, thinking of her fortune. Mercenary little 
wretch, the moralist would say; and yet she was not mercenary at 
all. 

The girls were walking across the common by themselves. It 
was part of Mrs. Stone’s enlightened system that she allowed them 
to do so, in cases where the parents did not interfere. And so far 
as these two were concerned, even the consent of the parents was 
unnecessary; for was not Katie Russell, though only eighteen, a 
governess in the bud? and, accordingly, quite capable of acting as 
chaperon when necessary. Poor little Katie! this was one of the 
mild indignities of her lot that, she felt most. Her lot was not at 
all a bad one at Mrs. Stone’s, where the head of the establishment 
backed her up quietly as indeed the one of her inmates with whom 
she was most in sympathy — and when the girls were “ nice.” Girls 
are not all “ nice,” any more than any other class of the commu 
nity, and Katie had known what it was to be snubbed and scorned, 
and even insulted. But happily this was not the fashion at the 
White House. Still one mark of her inferior position remained in 
the fact that Katie, though so young, and one of the prettiest of the 
band, was, being half a governess, qualified to accompany her peers 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


7a 


in the character of chaperon. It was not quite clear that she might 
not be at that moment taking care of Lucy, who was less than a 
year her junior; but happily this idea had not crossed her mind. It 
was Sunday, which was a day of great freedom at the White House 
— a day given over (after due attention to all religious duties, need 
it be said? for Mrs. Stone knew what was expected of her, and you 
may be sure took all her doves to church with the most undeviat- 
ing regularity) to confidences, to talks, to letter- writings. Some of 
the girls were covering sheets of note-paper with the most intimate 
revelations, some were chattering in corners, some reading story- 
books. Story-books are not necessarily novels — Mrs. Stone made a 
clever distinction. There was nothing in three volumes upon her 
purified and dignified shelves; but a book in one volume had a very 
good chance of coming within her tolerant reading of the word 
story. And some were out, perambulating about the garden, where 
the first crocuses were beginning to bloom, or crossing the common 
by those devious little paths half hidden in heather and all kinds of 
wild plants which were bad for boots and dresses, but very pleas- 
ant otherwise. It was along one of these that Lucy Trevor and her 
companion were wandering The mossy turf was very green, be- 
traying the moisture beneath; and the great bushes of heather, 
with all the withered bloom stiffened upon them, stood up like 
mimic forests from the treacherous grass. Wild bushes of gorse, 
with here and there a solitary speck of yellow, a premature bud 
upon them, interspersed their larger growth here and there. The 
frost had all melted away. In the little marshy pools, the water 
was clear and caught glimpses of a sky faintly blue. One willow 
on the very verge of the common had hung out its tassels, those 
prophecies of coming life. 

There was a scent of spring in the air. “ In the spring a 
young man’s fancy lightly turns to — ’’love, the poet says; and so, 
perhaps, does a girl’s. But before- either is warmly awakened to 
that interest, spring touches them thrilling with a profusion of 
thought and planning and anticipation, not so distinct as love. The 
young creatures feel the sap of life mounting within them Oft- 
times they know nothing more, and have formed no definite idea 
either of what they want, or why; but their minds are running over 
with the flood of living. Their plans go lightly skimming through 
the air, now poising on a branch, and again flashing widely on 
devious wings to all the points of the compass like so many birds. 
There was no immediate change necessary in the placid course of 
their school- girl existence; but they leaped forward to meet the fut- 


THE GKEATEST HEIIiESS IN ENGLAND. 


74 

ure with all the force of their energies. Yet, perhaps, it was only 
one of them who did this. Lucy was too calm in the certainty of 
the changes that sooner or later would happen to her — changes al- 
ready mapped out and arranged for her, as she was well aware — to 
he able to give herself up to these indefinite pleasures of imagina- 
tion. But Jvatie leaped at her future with the fervor of a fresh 
imagination. She made up her mind to sacrifice herself, and give 
Lucy her cousin in less time than many would take to decide 
whether they should give up a ribbon. She sunk into silence for a 
little time while she was pondering it, but never from any indecision; 
only because, in her rapid foresight of all that was necessary, she 
did not quite see how the first step, the introduction of these two to 
each other, was to be brought about. 

Just then the girls became aware of two other figures, bearing 
down upon them from the other side of the common — two larger 
personages making their slight youth look what it was, something 
not much more than childish. There was Mrs. Stone and the un 
known gentleman who had arrived at the White House, to the 
scandal of the old governess, last night. When the girls perceived 
this they mutually gave each other’s arms a warning pressure. Oh, 
look, here he is!” said Katie, and, “ Is that the gentleman?” Lucy 
sa’d. The encounter brought to the former a quick flush of excite- 
ment. She wondered a little, on her own account, who the gentleman 
was; for an apparition of such an unusual description in a girl’s 
school had naturally excited all the inmates. A man under Mrs. 
Stone’s roof! Men were common enough, things at home, and 
aroused no feelings of curiosity or alarm. But here it was quite 
different. Whence came he, and what had he come for? But besides 
this, there was another source of interest in Katie’s thoughts. As 
she conceived her own plot, a glimmering sense of the other came 
upon her by instinct. Why had this wonderful occurrence, this 
arrival of a gentleman, happened at Mrs. Stone’s? Mrs. Stone knew 
all about Lucy’s fortune, and the wicked scheme invented by her 
father (of which Katie knew nothing except by lively guesses) to 
keep her unmarried. And straightway the gentleman had cornel 
She watched him anxiously as he approached. He was like Mrs. 
Stone, and he was not unlike the smiling and gracious face in a hair- 
dresser’s window, complacent in wax- work satisfaction. He was 
large, tall, with fine black hair, whiskers and mustache, and a 
good complexion. He had something of that air of self-display — 
not vanity or conceit, but simply expansion and spreading out of 
himself which is characteristic of large men used to the company 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 75 

of many women. Katie pressed her friend’s arm more and more 
closely as they approached. 

“ What do you think of him?” she said. “ I wonder if they will 
speak to us. Will Mrs. Stone introduce us? If she does I know 
what I shall think.” 

“ What shall you think?” said Lucy, across whose mind no glim- 
mering of the cause of this unusual visit had flown. She watched 
him coming very placidly. “ Mrs. Stone will not stop. She never 
does when she has any stranger with her. Who is it, Katie? I 
never heard that they had any brother.” 

It is their nephew, ’ ’ Katie said, with something of that knowledge 
which is what she herself called governessy; that minute acquaint- 
ance with all the details of a family which people in any kind of de- 
pendence are so apt to attain. Mademoiselle was her authority — 
mademoiselle, who, though she was ” nice,” had yet the foibles of 
her position, and a certain jealous interest, not altogether unkind, 
yet too curious to be entirely benevolent, about all her employers' 
works and ways. * ‘ He was brought up for the Church, but he has 
not gone into the Church. Doesn’t he look like a parson? When 
a man lias been brought up in that way he never gets the better of 
it. He always looks like a spoiled clergyman.” 

” I don’t think he looksriike a clergyman at all,” said Lucy, 
“ nor spoiled either.” 

" Oh, you admire him! I ought to have known you are just the 
kind of girl to like a barber’s block man. Our Frank,” said Katie, 
with some vehemence, “ is not so big — lie lias not half such a shirt- 
front; but I am sure he has more strength. You should see him 
throwing things. He won two cups for that, and one for running,” 
she added, with a sigh. She already felt something of the pang 
with which these cherished cups would be put, with their owner, 
into another’s possession. In imagination she had sometimes seen 
them arranged on an humble sideboard in a little house, with which 
she herself, Katie, had the closest connection. But that was the 
merest dream, and not to be considered for a moment when the in- 
terest of one and the happiness of the other were concerned. 

** Frank! who is Frank?” said Lucy; “ you never told me of him 
before.” 

“ Oh, Frank is my cousin. There never was any occasion,” said 
Katie, with a slightly querulous tone, which Lucy did not under- 
stand. She looked with a little wonder at her friend, then set down 
her perturbation to the score of Mrs. Stone, who was now very near. 
The girls withdrew from each other to make room, leaving the nar- 


?6 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

XOW path clear between. Mrs. Stone answered this courtesy by 
stepping forward in front of the gentleman with a gracious smile 
upon her face. 

“ Where are you going?” she said. “ I think, my dear children, 
it is going to rain. You must soon turn back; and the common is 
very wet. After you have got back and changed your boots, come 
to my room to tea.” And then she passed on with little amical 
nods and smiles. The gentleman was not introduced to them, but 
he took off his hat as he followed behind Mrs. Stone, a courtesy 
which is always agreeable to girls who have only lately ceased to be 
little girls, and come within the range of dignified salutations. Even 
Lucy’s tranquil soul owned a faint flutter of pleasure. It was a 
distinct honor too to be asked to Mrs. Stone’s room to tea, and to 
know that they "were to be introduced into the society of the “ gen- 
tleman ” added a little additional excitement. They walked only a 
very little way further, mindful at once of the advice and the in- 
vitation. 

“ I wonder if any of the others will be there,” said Katie. She 
was somewhat elated, although she was suspicious, and in a state 
of half resistance to Mrs. Stone and the rival Frank, whose rivalry 
the little schemer felt by instinct. As for Lucy, the object of all 
this plotting, she suspected nothing. She even felt a little guilty in 
the pleasure to which she looked forward. To be asked to Mrs. 
Stone’s room to tea on Sunday evening was a distinction of which 
all the girls were proud. It was like an invitation from the queen, 
a command which was not to be disregarded; but yet she had a lit- 
tle uneasiness in her mind, thinking of her little brother, who would 
be disappointed. Even for Mrs. Stone, the sovereign of this small 
world, she did not like to break faith with little Jock. 


CHAPER XI. 

AN AFTERNOON TEA. 

Mrs. Stone’s room was fitted up in the latest, which I need not 
say is far from being the newest fashion^ It would indeed have 
been an insult to her to say that anything in it was new. Mr. Mor- 
ris had only just begun to reign over the homes of the aesthetic 
classes; but Mrs. Stone was well in advance of her age, and her 
walls were covered with a very large pattern of acanthus-leaves in 
several shades of green, with curtains as nearly as possible the same 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


77 


in design and color. She had a number of plates hung about the 
walls instead of pictures, and here and there gleaming shelves and 
little cabinets full of china, which were a great relief and comfort to 
the eye. Her chairs were Chippendale, need it be said? and held 
her visitors upright in a dignified height and security. The room 
had but one window, which was large, but half-filled with designs 
in glass, and half overshadowed with a great lime-tree, which was 
delightful in summer, but in February not so delightful. The fire 
was at the end of the room, and the room was somewhat dark, 
especially in the afternoon. When the two girls went in several 
persons were dimly visible seated in those large and solemn Chip- 
pendalian chairs, with hands reposing upon the arms of them, ranged 
against the walls like Egyptian gods. The color of one of those 
figures, though faint in the gloom, was that of Miss Soutliwood’s 
gray velveteen, her ordinary afternoon dress, and therefore recog- 
nizable; but the others in masculine black clothes, with only a vague 
whiteness for their faces, were mysterious as Isis and Osiris; and so 
was a lady with her veil over her face, who sat at the other side of 
the fire-place, with the air of a chairwoman at a meeting, high and 
stately; though she caught a little of the pale afternoon daylight 
upon her, yet her dark dress and seal-skin coat and veil prevented 
any distinctness of revelation. In this correct and carefully arranged 
parlor there was one weak point. A woman who is without caprice 
is unworthy of being called a woman. Instead of herself occupying 
a Chippendale chair, and having her tea-tray placed upon the tall 
slender-limbed Queen Anne table, which stood in readiness against 
the wall, Mrs. Stone chose to make herself the one anachronism in 
the place. Her chair was a low one in front of the fire; her tea- 
table was in proportion — a bit of debased nineteenth-century com 
fort in the midst of the stately grace which she professed to think 
so much more delightful. Why was this? It was Mrs. Stone’s 
pleasure, and there was no more to be said. She, with her pretty 
white cap upon her handsome head, seated at the feet of all her 
silent guests in their high chairs, was not only the central light in 
the picture, but a kind of humorous commentary upon it; but 
whether this proceeded from any sense of the joke in her, or was 
merely the expression of her own determination to please herself, ~ 
were it even in fiat rebellion to her own code, no one could tell. 

“ You are just in time,” she said, “ Lucy and Katie, to give our 
friends some tea. Don’t interfere, Frank. I like girls to hand tea. 

It comes within their province; and it is a pretty office, which they 
do far more prettily than you can.’ - 


78 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


*' That I don’t dispute for a moment,” said a large round manly 
barytone, enthroned on high in one of the Chippendale chairs, “ and 
I don’t deny tht.t I like to be served by such hands when it is per- 
mitted.” 

“ That is one of the popular fallacies about women,” said Mrs. 
Stone, “ and involves the whole question. Our weak surrender of 
our rights for the pleasure of being waited upon in public, was, I 
suppose, one of the consequences of chivalry. According to my 
theory, it is the business of women to serve. You shoot the birds 
or kill the deer, Mr. Rushton, as you best can, and we cook it and 
carve it, and serve it up to you.” 

‘‘If this beatitude depends upon my ability to kill the deer or 
shoot the birds, my dear lady! ’ said another good-natured voice, 
which added immediately, “ Why, this is Lucy Trevor! I am very 
glad to see you. My dear, this is Lucy Trevor. Since she has been 
at the White House we have scarcely seen her. You girls are made 
too happy when you get under the charge of Mrs. Stone.” 

“ Is it you, Lucy?” said the lady with the veil; “ come and speak 
to me, dear. I think it is a year since I have seen you. You have 
grown up, quite grown up in the time. How these young creatures 
change! A year does not make much difference in us; but this 
child has shot up! And Raymond — you remember your playfel- 
low, Lucy — why, he is a man, as old as his father, giving us advice, 
if you please! It is something wonderful. I catch myself laugh- 
ing out when I hear him discoursing about law. Raymond giving 
his opinion, my little boy, my baby! And I dare say little Lucy has 
begun to give her opinion, too.’ : 

” Lucy is a very good girl,” said Mrs. Stone; “ she never takes 
anything upon her. Katie now and then favors us with her ideas 
as to how the world should be governed.” 

‘‘That is right,” said Mr. Rushton, from the darker side. “I 
like to know what the young people think. It is they who will have 
it all in their hands one day. ’ ’ 

“Bui, thank Heaven, they will have changed their minds before 
that time.” 

This was from Miss Southwood, who emphasized her exclama- 
tion by getting up to sweep off into the fire-place a few crumbs 
from her gray velveteen gown. 

“ Do you think it is a good thing they should have changed their 
minds? It seems to me rather a pity. That is why we never have 
anything new. We all fall into the same jog-trot about the same 
age.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


79 


“ The new is always to be avoided. Don’t tell me about jog-trot 
— I wish I were half as sensible as my mother.” 

“ And so do I, Ellen,” said Mrs. Stone, taking up the discussion 
in her own manner with that soft little half blow to begin with. 
Nobody could tell whether it was directed at her sister, or was an 
echo of her wish, not even Lucy, who knew her so well, and who 
stood between her and Mrs. Rusliton, listening to their talk, but 
without any impulse on her own part to rush into it as Katie would 
have done. Katie in the meantime had got out of that graver cir- 
cle. She had given the large barytone his cup of tea, and now was 
holding the cake-basket while he selected a piece. Katie was in the 
light, so much light as there was. She was a fair-haired girl, with 
just the touch of warmth and color that Lucy wanted — a little gold 
in her hair, a deeper blue in her eyes, a tinge of rose on her cheeks; 
and she had a far warmer sense of fun than Lucy, who would have 
carried the cake-basket quite demurely without any smile. 

“ I hope you will not think this is my fault,” Mrs. Stone’s 
nephew said in a low tone. “I am bound to obey, as I suppose 
every one is here; otherwise I should not sit still and allow myself 
to be served; it is not my way, I assure you. And I keep you 
standing so long. I can not make up my mind which piece to 
take. This has the most plums, but that is the larger piece. It 
always turns out so in this life; I wonder if you have found that 
out in your experience, or if things are better managed here.” 

‘‘We are not supposed to have any experience at school, ” said 
Katie, demurely. It was pretty to see her holding the cake-basket. 
And the rest of the company was occupied with their own conver- 
sation. Besides, how was he to know which of them was the 
heiress?. 

“ We met you on the common just now with your friend. It is 
not a very amusing walk, but it is better than going out in proces- 
sion, I suppose. Does my aunt make you do that? is it part of a 
young lady’s education, as cricket is of a man’s?” 

* ‘ Yes,” said Katie. “ We are trained to put up with everything 

that is disagreeable, just as boys are trained to everything that is 
pleasant.” 

“ Do you think cricket then so pleasant?” 

“ Not to me, but I suppose it is to boys; and boating and every- 
thing of the kind. On our side we are taught quite differently. If 
there is anything more tiresome than another, more tedious, less 
likely to please us, that is what we are made to do.” 

“ My poor aunt! is she a tyrant then with her pupils? She is not 


80 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


a tyrant for her relations; or at least a very charming, delightful 
tyrant.” 

“I did not mean Mrs. Stone; she is very kind — even to me; but 
I have been at other schools. I suppose it is for our good,” said 
Katie, with a sigh; “ everything that is very disagreeable is for our 
good; though I wonder sometimes why the boys should not have a 
little trial of the same — for I suppose they too have got to put up 
with things that are disagreeable in their life.” 

“ We are supposed,” said the barytone, who was becoming quite 
visible to her, enthroned in his Chippendale chair, ‘ ‘ to have most 
of the disagreeables of life, while you ladies * who dwell at home 
at ease — * ” 

“ Ah!” cried Katie, setting down the cake-basket, “ if you would 
but quote correctly. The man who wrote the song knew a great 
deal better. It is the gentlemen who live at home at ease. ‘ To all 
you ladies now on land,’ is what he says; he knew better. We 
don’t go out to sea like him, but we go through just as much on 
land, you may be sure,” cried the girl with a sudden flush over her 
face; “ it was not to us he said, ‘ How little do you think upon the 
dangers of the seas.’ I have got a little brother a sailor,” she added, 
half under her breath. 

“ I have evidently chosen my illustration badly,” said the other, 
with prompt good-humor and a sympathetic tone. “ If you have a 
little brother I have a big one at sea, so here is something to frater- 
nize upon. Mine is the captain of a big merchantman, an old salt, 
and does not mind the dangers of the sea.” 

“ Ah, but mine is a little middy,” said Katie, with a smile in her 
eyes and a tear trembling behind it, “ he minds a great deal. He 
does not like it at all. And mamma and I feel the wind go through 
and through us whenever it blow r s.” 

“ I see,” said the gentleman, “ these are the disagreeables of life 
you speak of — imaginary. Probably when he is in a gale you know 
nothing about it, and the winds that make you tremble have noth- 
ing to do with him; but these are very different, you must acknowl- 
edge, from real troubles.” 

Katie did not condescend to answer this speech. She gave him a 
look only, but that spoke volumes. The superiority of experience 
in it was beyond words. How could he know, a man, 'well dressed, 
and well oil apparently, with a heavy gold chain to his watch, and 
handsome studs, hovv could he know one tithe of the troubles that 
had come her way in that poverty which only those who know it 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 81 

can fathom ? She withdrew behind the tea-table, just as Mrs. Stone 
called to her nephew. 

“Frank,” she said. (“So he is Frank, too, ” said Katie to her* 
self.) “ I have not presented you to my young friends. Mr. Frank 
St. Clair, Miss Russell (I see you have made acquaintance already), 
and Miss Trevor. Lucy, do you remember I once told you of a boy 
who was to me what your little Jock is to you? There he stands,” 
for Frank had risen to bow to his new acquaintance, and stood with 
his back to the window, shutting out what little light there was. 

“ You were a very young aunt, certainly,” he said, “ but I re- 
fuse to believe that Miss Trevor has anything to do with a second 
generation.” 

“Youth does not matter in that respect,” said Mrs. Rusliton. 

“ I was an aunt when I was three. There are a great many younger 
aunts than Lucy; but, as it happens, it is a little brother we are 
thinking of. And d propos, my dear, how is little Jock? has he 
gone to school? it must be time lie were at school.” 

“ When you are ready, Lucy,” said Mr. Rusliton, “ I am going 
with you to see your father. Not to say a word against my good 
old friend Trevor, he is full of whims. Now, wliat is his fancy 
about that child? He will not bring him up as you have been 
brought up, Lucy.” 

“ Because he has nothing to do with the money,” said Lucy, sim- 
ply. “ Papa thinks that a very good' reason. I wish you would 
persuade him, Mr. Rushton; I can’t.” 

“And he tells you so!” said Mrs. Rushton, shaking her head; 

“ he talks to you about your money, Lucy?” 

“ Oh, yes, a great deal,” said Lucy. She spoke with perfect calm 
and composure, and they all looked at her with subdued admira- 
tion. Six pairs of eyes thus turned to her in the partial gloom. An 
heiress! and not ashamed of it, nor excited by it — taking it so calm- 
ly. Sighs that were all but prayers burst from, at least, three 
bosoms. Oh, that she but knew my Raymond! thought one; and, - 
if Frank will. but play his cards as he ought! breathed another; 
while Mr. St. Clair himself said within himself robustly and with- 
out any disguise, I wish I had it! There was no sentiment in the 
latter aspiration. Katie, for her part, looked across the tea-table at 
her friend with one of her sudden blushes, feeling her cheeks tingle. 
What were her feelings in respect to Lucy? In her case the wonder 
and interest were dashed with contempt, yet warmed by affection. 
Katie thought she despised money — not the abuse of it, nor the pride 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


of it — but itself. Her soft little lip curled (or, at least, she tried to 
make il curl) with disdain at this meretricious advantage. She had 
said a hundred times that Lucy would be a Very nice girl, the nicest 
girl in the school, if it were not for that money. She looked at her 
with a kind of angry love— half disposed to cry out, in Lucy’s de- 
fense, that she was far better than her fortune; and half to throw 
a gibe at her because she was rich. If they had been alone she 
would have done the latter. As it was, amid this party of people, 
with Mrs. Stone close by, and Miss Southwood’s little dark eyes 
twinkling at her out of the shadows, Katie was prudent and said 
nothing at all. As for Lucy, she did not in the least perceive the 
covetousness which — in some instances, so mingled with other feel, 
ings that its baseness was scarcely visible — flamed in the eyes of the 
irreproachable people who surrounded her. Mrs. Rushton was a 
kind, good woman, who would not have harmed a fly. Mrs. Stone 
was better even, she was high-minded, generous in her way. And 
yet they both devoured Lucy in their thoughts — gave her over to 
the destroyer. How fortunate that she never suspected them as she 
stood there tranquilly between the two, acknowledging that she 
knew a great deal about her money! Mrs. Rushton was still shak- 
ing her head at that avowal. 

“ My dear,” she was saying, and with perfect sincerity, “ you 
must not let it turn your head. Money can do a great deal, but 
there are many things it can not do. It can not make you happy — 
or good.” 

“Lucy is good in spite of it,” Mrs. Stone said, she too in all 
sincerity; “ and I don’t think she lets her mind dwell upon it. But 
it is a very equivocal advantage for a girl,” she added, with a sigh. 

All this Frank St. Clair listened to with a grin upon his good- 
looking countenance. What humbugs! he said to himself — not 
being capable of understanding that these women were much more 
interesting as well as more dangerous in not being humbugs at all. 
He, for his part, waited for an opportunity of making himself agree- 
able to the little heiress in perfect good faith — brutalement as the 
French say. He wanted to please her frankly for # her fortune’s 
sake. Not that he could have been unkind to her had he happened 
to strike her fancy, or would waste her fortune, or do anything un- 
becoming an honest Englishman. But an honest Englishman with 
a light purse may surely look after a girl with money without com- 
promising his character. When he asked her to marry him he 
would not let her see that her money had anything to do with it. 
He would fall in love with her as a matter of course. It is not 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


8 ? 


difficult to fall in love with a pretty young girl of seventeen. Well, 
perhaps, not strictly pretty— not nearly so pretty, for example, as 
that little Poverty by her side, the foil to her wealth; but still very 
presentable, and not unattractive in her own simple person. Thus 
the cautious eyes that surrounded Lucy, the hearts that beat with 
eagerness to entrap and seize her, did not recognize themselves as 
inflamed by evil passions. They were aware, perhaps, that a little 
casuistry would be necessary to make the outer world aware of the 
innocence of their intentions, but there was no aspect of the case in 
which they could not prove that innocence to themselves. 

When the Hour of tea was over Mr. Rushton walked home with 
Lucy to see his old friend. John Trevor was not Mr. Rushton’s 
equal, nor did he treat him as such. The old school master had 
taught him arithmetic, that neglected branch of education, thirty 
or forty years ago, before he went to the public school, where it 
was not taught; and the prosperous lawyer, who was town clerk, 
and one of the principal men in Farafield, had always shown a great 
regard for his old master. “ I should never have known more than 
Iwo times two but for you, Trevor,” he would say, patting the old 
man on the shoulder, not veiy respectful, yet w r ith genuine kind- 
ness. He went into the blue and white drawing room, and seated 
himself in front of the fire, and talked for an hour to old Trevor, 
liberating Lucy, who hurried away to Mrs. Ford’s parlor, and with 
enviable confidence in her digestion, had another cup of tea to please 
Jock, who had been watching for her eagerly from the window. 
Then she was made to sit down in a creaking basket-work chair be 
side the fire and tell him stories. Mrs. Ford’s parlor was not aes- 
thetic, like that of Mrs. Stone; but its horse-hair and mahogany 
furniture produced an effect not much unlike. Mrs. Ford, in a 
black arm-chair, was elevated as high above the heads of the younger 
people as if she had been seated in a genuine Chippendale chair. 
And she crossed her hands on her black silk apron, and sitting back 
in the shadow, listened well pleased, but half in a drowse of com- 
fort, to Lucy’s stories. She had a little rest in her own person when 
Lucy stepped into the breach; though Mrs. Ford was not at all cer- 
tain that Lucy’s stories were Sunday stories -worthy of the name. 

Old Trevor had the will spread out before him when Mr. Rushton 
entered — not adding to it. however, which he -would have certainly 
disapproved of as improper Sunday work— but reading it over, some 
times aloud, sometimes under his breath, sometimes with mutterings 
of criticism. He pushed it aw T ay as his visitor entered, and rose 
tottering to welcome him. 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ Always going on with it, always going on with it,” the new- 
comer said, shaking his hand. 

“ Yes, I always go on with it,” cried old Trevor, with a chuckle; 
“ it’s my magnum opus, Mr. Rushton. I add a bit most days, and 
on Sunday I read over my handiwork, and study how I can mend 
it. I have put you in,” he added, with a great many nods of his 
head. 

“ What, for a legacy, Trevor?” said Mr. Rushton, with an easy 
laugh. 

“Fora legacy if you like,” said old Trevor, “ though I don’t 
suppose a hundred pounds would be much to you. No, not for 
money, but for the care of my girl, who is money. Ford 
down-stairs is always dinning into my ears that somebody will 
many her for her fortune. I hope Lucy has more sense; but still, 
in case of anything happening, I want her to have friends to advise 
her.” 

” Oh, I will advise her,” said Mr. Rushton, lightly, “ though I 
think perhaps my wife would do it better. Fortune-hunters, yes, there 
are always fortune-hunters after an heiress. Your best plan would 
be to choose some one for her yourself, and get her married off in 
your lifetime, Trevor. Lucy is a good girl, and would content her- 
self with her father’s choice.” 

” Do you think so?” said the old man, with a gleam of pleasure; 
“ but, no, no,” he added, “lam not in the same world that Lucy 
will be in. I couldn’t choose for her; and besides she’s only sev 
enteen, and I’m not long for this world.” 

Seventeen is not too young to be married; and you’re hale and 
hearty, mv old friend,” said his visitor, once more slapping him 
on the shoulder. This demonstration of friendliness was almost too 
much for old Trevor, standing up feebly on his trembling old legs 
in honor of this distinguished acquaintance. He shook his head, 
but the voice was shaken out of him, and he was not capable of any 
further reply. When, however, Mr. Rushton encountered Ford 
outside at the gateway of the Terrace he took a much less jovial 
tone. “ I hope he has got everything signed and sealed,” he said, 

*' and all his affairs in order: these papers he is always pottering over 
—codicils, I suppose— you should get them signed, too, and made 
an end of. He is not long for this world, as he himself says.” 

‘‘ I don’t see much difference,” said Ford, with that eagerness, 
half sorrow for tne impending event, half impatience to have it 
over, which even the most affectionate of friends often feel in spite 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 85 

of themselves, in respect to a long anticipated, often retarded end- 
ing. “ But then I see him every day. Do you really think — ” 

‘ You should see that everything is settled and in order,’' said 
the lawyer, as he walked away. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

“ And so Christopher went away to look for the great strong man 
that King Maximus was afraid of; but I forgot, his name was not 
Christopher then, but only Ofliero, a heathen; you know wliat a 
heathen is, Jock?” 

” I should think I did know; but go on, go on with the story, I 
never read this in any book.” 

“ Well! Then Christopher wandered about everywhere over all 
the country, asking for the strange man. He did not know whether 
it was a giant like himself, or a king like Maximus, or what it was; 
but he went over the seas and up among the hills and into all the 
towns, looking for him.” 

“ That is far too like a fairy tale for a Sunday,” said Mrs. Ford* 
sitting behind in her big arm-chair. “ My dear, if he had gone to 
the chief people in the country, the ways of the towns, or the au 
thorities, they would soon have told him — that is, if he knew his 
name; and even in a fairy tale few people are so stupid as 1o set 
out in search of any one without knowing his name.” 

Mrs. Ford was a trifle, just a trifle jealous. Lucy was not at all 
in the habit of interfering with her prerogative; but she did not like 
it. The ‘ ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress’ ’ she felt was much better entertain • 
ment on a Sunday night for any child. 

* ‘ Oh, but this was not a person that the mayors and the magis- 
trates knew. Listen, Jock, his name was Satan. Now, do you 
know who that great strong man was?” 

“ I thought as much, and it’s all an allegory,” said Jock, who 
was blase > and tired of parables. “ I like a story best when it doesn't 
mean anything; but go on, Lucy, all the same.” 

“I don’t think it’s an allegory. Katie Russell read it out of a 
book about the saints. I believe it is a true story, only very, very 
long ago; many things happened long ago that don’t happen now. 

I don’t suppose the queen has a big giant like Christopher in all her 
arpiips; but still there was once a Christopher, Jock.” 


80 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Jock accepted the explanation with a little wave of his hand. He 
was glad, very glad, especially on Sunday, of anything new, but at 
the same time he was critical, and at the first suggestion of an al- 
legory stood on his guard. 

“Well,” said Lucy, resuming, “when Christopher had wan- 
dered about for a long time he met with a band of knights and their 
servants, traveling about as they used to do in those days, and at 
their head there was one all in black armor, with a helmet covering 
his head and his face. ’ * 

“ You mean, I suppose,” said Jock, somewhat cynically, “ with 
his visor down.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Lucy, a little confused, “ but you know X 
am not so clever about these things as you are. I’m afraid you 
don’t care about my story, Jock.” 

“ Oh, yes, I care about it; but unless there were enemies about, 
and he was afraid, he never would have had his visor down; and if 
ne were afraid, Christopher would have known he couldn’t be much; 
but I like your story all the same,” Jock added, with great polite- 
ness; and he liked the role of critic, which was novel, too. 

“He did not want to show his face,” said Lucy, considerably 
cowed, “ because if people had seen him it would have been known 
what kind of a being he was, and he looked a very great prince with 
all his followers round him. So when Christopher heard that this 
was Satan he went to him and offered his service, and he was one 
ot his soldiers for a long time, I can’t tell how long, but he did not 
like it at all, Jock, they did so many cruel things. At last one day, 
one very hot day in summer, they were all marching along, and 
there were two roads to the place where they wen going; one road 
led through a wood, and that was a pleasant shady way, ana the 
other was the high road, which was dusty and scorching, and not a 
bit of shelter; and you may suppose how astonished Christopher 
was when the captain refused to go by the pleasant way, though it 
was the shortest, too.” 

“ What was that for?” said Jock, excited mildly by an incident 
which he had not foreseen. 

4 He would not tell for a long time; first he said it was one thing 
and then another, but none of these reasons was the true one. At 
last Christopher so pressed and pressed that he got into a passion, 
and it all came out. ‘ You great big blundering stupid giant, he 
cried, ‘ don’t you know there is a cross in the wood?' But Christo- 
pher did not know what the cross meant; and then the black knight 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 87 

was obliged to tell him that he dared not pass the cross, because of 
One,” here Lucy’s voice sunk into reverential tones, “ who had 
been crucified upon it, and had won the battle, and had made even 
that dreadful black spirit, that cruei Satan, tremble and fly.” 

Jock was impressed, too, and there was a little pause, and in the 
ruddy twilight round the fire the two young creatures looked 
solemnly at each other; and a faint sound, something between a sigh 
and a sob, came from kind Mrs. Ford, over their heads, who was 
much touched and weeping- ripe at the turn, to her so unexpected, 
which the story had taken. 

“ And what did he do then?” asked Jock, not without awe. 

“ Oh, Jock! he dashed his great big fist in the black captain’s face, 
and shouted out, ‘ I knew you were a coward, you are so cruel. 
The Man who hung upon the cross, He is my Master. I will go and 
seek Him till I die.’ ” 

Then there was another little pause — Lucy, too, in the excitement 
of her story-telling, having got a lump in her throat — and Mrs. 
Ford sobbed once more for pleasure. 

“It is a beautiful story,” she said; “I am very glad that the 
poor giant is going to be converted at the last.” 

“ Ah, but now comes the difficult part,” said Jock, “ how was 
he to find him ? It was only a wooden image that was upon that 
cross; he might seek and seek, like the knights in the * Morte 
d’ Arthur.’ but how was he to find Him? that is what I want to 
know. ’ ’ 

“ Lucy, my dear, I think your papa wants you,” said Ford, com- 
ing in at this point, a little more uneasy than usual, by dint of Mr # 
Rushton’s warning. “ He is sitting all alone, and he has just had 
his gas lighted.” He came out to the door of the parlor to wait for 
her, as she rose and disengaged herself from her little brother, who 
caught her dress to detain her. Ford, at the door, put his hand on 
Lucy’s arm. “ Do you think he has been looking worse? don’t let 
me frighten you, Lucy, but can you see any appearance as if he were 
sinking?” 

“Do you mean papa? No,” cried Lucy, with a start of alarm. 
“ Is he ill? I will go to him directly. What is the matter?” 

He had talked to her so much of his death that the girl’s heart 
leaped into the excited throbbing which accompanies every great 
rallying of the forces of nature. All her strength might be required 
now, at once, without preparation. Her throat grew dry, and the 
blood rushed to her face. 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ Oh, I don’t think there is anything more than ordinary,’ - said 
Ford; “but Mr. Rusliton thought him looking bad. He gave me 
a fright; and then, of course, my dear, at his time of life — ” 

Lucy drew her ^rin away, and -went softly upstairs. Many 
daughters before notvTiave had to smooth the way before a dying 
father, and there was nothing required of her in this way that 
was above her strength; tut it was not with her in other things as 
with others. She was aware how great the change was which would 
open upon her the moment this aged life had reached its term, and 
all the strange unknown conditions which would surround her. It 
was not possible for Lucy to thrust away the thought, and comfort 
herself with indefinite hopes. For years her thoughts had been 
directed to the catastrophe which was to be so momentous for her; 
she had never been allowed to ignore it. Her heart still beat loudly 
at the thought of that which might be coming now — which certainly 
must come before long. Her father was the center of all her present 
living — beyond him lay the unknown; but when she went upstairs 
he was sitting quite cheerfully, as he had been sitting any time these 
ten years — almost since ever Lucy could remember— in his arm- 
chair, neither paler nor sadder, nor with any tragical symptoms in 
him, looking over, with the same air of satisfaction, the same large 
manuscripts in which, with his own small neat handwriting, he 
had written down his whole mind. He looked up as she came in, 
and gave her his usual little nod of welcome; and Lucy's heart im- 
mediately settled down into its usual calm. She took her usual seat 
beside him. All was as it had been for years in the familiar room; 
it was not, however, the familiar room which took any character 
from its inmates — or rather perhaps it embodied too entirely the 
character of its old master, who required nothing except his chim- 
ney-corner, and had no eye or taste for 1 hose niceties which reign 
in a lady’s sitting-room, even when not a Queen Anne parlor of the 
newest old-fashion, like that of Mrs. Stone. Lucy had never been 
used to anything else, yet it repressed all emotion in her when she 
came into this unemotional place. Die! why should any one ever 
die? Would not to-day be as yesterday forever, and every hour the 
same? 

‘ I have had Rusliton here,” said the old man; “ how fat that 
man is getting at his age! I don’t suppose he’s fifty yet, I am 
glad I am not one of the fat kind, Lucy; it must be such a trouble. 
And to think I remember him a slim boy, not much higher than, 
you are. Hasn’t he got a son?” 

“ Yes, papa; Raymond. I used to play with him when i was 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


89 


little. He is quite grown up now. Mrs. Rushton was telling me 
about him — ” 

“ Take my advice, Lucy,” said her father, interrupting her, “ and 
don’t, however it may be pressed upon you, marry a man out of 
Farafield. Plenty will try for you — very likely Raymond himself. 
I thought there was something in Rushton’ s eye — it was that made 
me think of it. Don’t marry a man from here. There’s nothing but 
paltry sort of people here.” 

*' Yes, papa,” said Lucy, calmly. She had given a great many 
other promises on this question of her marriage, with the same com- 
posure. There was no excitement in her own mind about the ques- 
tion. She did not care what pledges she gave. # Her father, who 
was not without humor, perceived this, and fixed his eyes upon her 
with his usual chuckle. 

“ Yes, papa,” he said, mimicking her small voice. “ Anything 
for a quiet life; you would promise me not to marry the mayor, or 
to marry the bishop, if I asked you, just in the same tone ” 

” No, papa; I will promise not to marry anybody you clmose to 
mention; but the other thing would be more difficult. In the first 
place, I don’t know the bishop,” she added, with a smile. 

44 That is all very well,” said the old man; “ but don’t you know» 
Lucy, that in a year or two your mind may change on that subject? 
You might fall in love, not with the bishop, but why not with Ray- 
mond Rushton, or any other boy about the place? And this is what 
I want to say to you, my dear. Don’t! That is to say, keep them 
at a distance, Lucy. Don’t let them come near enough to get hold 
of you. Take my word for it, though they may be nice enough in 
their way, Farafield people are small. They are petty people. They 
don’t know the world; and you, with your fortune, my dear, you 
belong to the world, not to a little place like this.” 

*‘ But you have lived all your life in Farafield.” 

“ Oh, yes; that is quite true. And I am just the same kind — 
petty, that is the word, Lucy— small. That is why I am living like 
this, making no change till it all comes into your hands. Living in 
a grand house, spending a deal of money, would go against me— I 
should not like it. I should grudge every penny — I should say to 
.myself, 4 You old fool, John Trevor! what do you mean by spend- 
ing all this upon yourself?’ I couldn’t do it. Carriages, and horses, 
and a number of servants would be the death of me.” 

“ I don’t think I shall like them any better, papa; and if it is 
waste for you it would also be waste for me,” 

44 Not at all, not at all,” he said; 44 you have been brought up to 


90 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


it; and it will be your duty, for property has duties, Lucy. It is just 
as necessary that you should spend a great deal on your living, and 
keep up a great show, as it is that you should give a great deal to 
the poor. : ’ 

“ But why then, papa, if you think that am I to live here with 
the Folds, who do not understand anything of the kind, half of the 
year?” 

“Aha, Lucy!” he said, “that is just my principle, you know; 
that is what you don’t understand as yet. You are to live with 
Lady Randolph and the Fords six months each for — unless you can 
get them all to consent to let you marry somebody before that time 
— as long as you are a girl, my dear; this is the very crown of my 
plan, Lucy, without which the other would not be good for much,” 
he said, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and pausing to tan 
talize her. As it was Sunday Lucy had not her knitting, so that 
she had nothing to do but to look at him, with perfect placid com- 
posure as usual, showing no scrap of excitement. 

“ JL>o you mean it is to be only for a time, papa?” 

“ For — seven years,” he said, “ seven years from the time of my 
death. It is to be hoped that my death will not be very long of 
coming, or you will be too old to enjoy your freedom. But there is 
not much fear of that; even if you were thirty before it came, thirty 
is the finest time of life. You know a great deal by that time, you 
are not so easily taken in, and you are still fresh and in ah your 
glory. Never mind if fools begin to call you an old maid; a woman 
is not an old maid at thirty, she is at her best. She can pick and 
cnoose, especially when she has a fortune like yours. And by that 
time you wili have got out of the young set — the ball-room set; you 
will have learned to know people of importance. Yes,” he said, 
chuckling, “ that is the crown of my plan for you, Lucy — for seven 
years you will be under a little restraint; Mrs. Ford on one hand, 
Lady Randolph on the other, two people, I flatter myself, just as 
unlike as can be; and all .the men that have a chance will be after 
you; but none of them will be able to marry you without the con- 
sent, you know,” he went on, chuckling once more, “of all these 
people; which I (onfess, Lucy, I lake to be next to impossible. 
And then, my dear— then, in seven years complete freedom— free- 
dom to do whatever you like — to marry whom you like — to be your 
own guardian— your own adviser. It is worth -waiting for, Lucy — 
well worth waiting for. What a prospect!” cried the old man, in 
an ecstasy, “ a well-trained mind used to control, an inexhaustible 
fortune, nothing to do but to pick and choose among the best peo- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


91 


pie, and still under thirty years of age! By that time you will have 
learned to he content with nothing less than the best.” 

Nothing could be more curious than the pleased excilement of the 
old man, looking forward to this climax of mortal felicity which he 
had carefully arranged for his child, and the perfect calm of the 
child herself, who neither realized nor appreciated that blessedness. 
She said, after awhile, with a soft little sigh, which was half weari 
' ness and half a sense of the dreariness of the prospect, 

‘ I should think it would be very nice — for a man, papa.’* 

“ For a man! nonsense, Lucy; that is just an old fashioned no- 
tion. A woman who is thirty, and has a great fortune, and is free 
to please herself, is as good as any man.” 

This was not exactly Lucy’s point of view, but she had no gift 
for argument. She thought it was time to take refuge in a little 
harmless gossip, which was the only thing that now and then gave 
her the possibility of an escape from the will. 

“ Mrs. Stone has a visitor,” she said, “ a gentleman come to see 
her Mademoiselle thinks it very wrong to have a gentleman where 
there are so many girls. He is Mrs. Stone’s nephew; his name is 
Mr. Frank St. Clair. It is quite a pretty name, isn’t it, papa? and 
he is good-looking, though Katie says it is the barber’s-stock style 
How I know is, that Katie and I went to Mrs. Stone’s parlor to tea. 
She never asks more than two girls on Sunday, and it shows she is 
pleased with you when she asks you. We all like to be asked to 
the parlor to tea. ’ ’ 

“ Ah!” said old Trevor. He laughed, and looked at Lucy with a 
great many nods of his gray head. “ Mrs. Stone is generally pleased 
with you, eh, Lucy? She is a sensible woman; she knows what’s 
what, as well as any one, I know. And so she has had her nephew 
down already. She is a clever woman, a prompt woman. 1 have a 
great opinion of Mrs. Stone.” 

“Do you know him, then?” said Lucy, with a little surprise. 
“ She said she could not pretend to entertain him at the White 
House, which is given up to education, and that it would be nice 
for him to be able to come and talk to you. : ' 

At this Mr. Trevor chuckled more and more; he rubbed his 
hands with glee. 

“ She is quite capable of it,” he cried, delighted, “ quite capable 
of it. She is a clever woman, Lucy. I have always had a great 
admiration for Mrs. Stone. : ’ 

“ Capable of what?” said Lucy, almost angry. She, for her part, 
had a great admiration for Mrs. Stone. She had a girl’s belief in. 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


and loyalty to, the elder woman, who yet was not too old to be out 
of sympathy with girls. She admired her mature beauty, her dress, 
everything about her, and to hear Mrs Stone laughed at was pain- 
ful to Lucy. It affected that esprit de corps which is next to self- 
regard, or sometimes even goes before it. She felt, her own moral 
standing involved when any one questioned, or seemed to question, 
the superiority of her leader. It was almost the only occasion on 
which any latent gleam of temper came to Lucy’s mild eyes. 

Mr. Trevor laughed again. 

“ You don’t understand it, my dear,” he said, “ it’s a joke be- 
tween Mrs. Stone and me. She is capable of making me a party to 
my own defeat,” he said, with a new series of chuckles, “ of bring- 
ing me into the conspiracy against myself. That’s what I call 
clever, Lucy; oh, she’s a very able woman! but let us hope this 
time she won’t be so successful as she deserves. Forewarned is 
forearmed; I know now what I’ve got to look forward to, and I 
hope she won’t find me an easy prey, my dear, thanks to you.” 

“lean not in the least tell what you mean, papa,” said Lucy, 
with dignity, “and if it is anything against Mrs. Stone, I don’t 
want to know; and 1 hope she will be successful, whatever she 
wishes to do — though I don’t know what it is,” the girl added, with 
vehemence quite unusual to her. It brought the color to her usual- 
ly pale cheek. She got up from her chair with angry haste, ” I 
am going to get ready for dinner,’ she said, ” and if I have said 
anything to set you against Mrs. Stone, I did not mean it, and I am 
very sorry. It must be my fault, for I am quite sure there is noth- 
ing wrong in anything she wants to do.” 

It was as if Lucy flounced out of the room, so different was it 
from her usual calm, though even now her demeanor was quiet 
enough. But her father was not much affected by the girl’s vehe- 
mence. He sat looking after her, and chuckled, watching her gray 
gown whisk — nay, almost whisk — the word was too violent to be 
employed to any movement of Lucy’s — round the corner of the big 
screen, and thought to himself how wise he had been, and how 
clever in choosing an instructress for Lucy of whom she thought so 
well. Mrs. Stone’s design, which he thought he had found out, 
amused, and, indeed, pleased him, too. He liked to see that this 
fortune, of which he thought so much, produced a corresponding 
effect upon others, and, indeed, would have been disappointed if 
there had been nobody “ after ’ it during his life-time. This was 
the first, and he chuckled over the advent of the suitor, whom he 
determined to play and amuse himself with. That Mrs. Stone 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


93 


should have begun to scheme already did not displease, rather flat- 
tered him, especially as it gave him a fresh evidence of his penetra- 
tion in finding her out, and confidence in his own power of baffling 
her Another man might have been taken in, but not he. There 
he sat complacent, while Lucy changed her gray gown for a blue 
one. 

All these habits and customs of a life more refined than his own, 
the old man had done his best to train his daughter into. For a 
time he had even gone so far as to put himself into an evening coat 
for Lucy s sake, but increasing weakness had persuaded him to give 
up that penitential ceremony. Still he exacted, rigorously and re- 
ligiously, that she should dress for dinner, and would indeed have 
made her come down with bare shoulders every evening to the 
homely meal, but for the interference of Mrs. Stone, who had de- 
clared it “ old-fashioned,” with great energy, to the complete an- 
nihilation of poor old Trevor, who had thought himself certain of 
this important special feature of high life. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE LAST CLAUSE 

It is not to be supposed that in the tete-a-tete dinner that followed 
Lucy was set free from the interminable subject of that fortune 
which occupied all her father s thoughts. The idea of perfect free- 
dom in seven years had but newly dawned upon him— though, as 
soon as he had thought of it, he felt it to be, as he had said, the 
natural crown of his plan, and climax of his thoughts. Up to the 
moment the great idea had dawned upon him, there had been a 
‘ little sense of imperfection in his plans. They were elaborate prep- 
arations for — nothing. But now he had seized the end to which all 
the preparations led. Neither the Fords nor Lady Randolph could 
be expected to live forever in order to keep Lucy under subjection, 
nor would she always be under the superintendence of the matri- 
monial committee. The absurdity became apparent to the framer 
of the scheme just as he found the deliverance from it. And now 
that the climax had been attained, all the parts fell into due sub- 
ordination Restraint until she had fully tried ail the preliminaries 
of life and learned to estimate the worth of time, and then full free- 
dom and the control of herself and all that belonged to her. It 
seemed to oid Trevor, as he thougnt it over, a beautiful scheme; 


94 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


to-morrow lie would put fully on record these last stipulations, and 
when that was done there would be no more to do but to gather his 
garments round him and go out of tne way It must not be sup- 
posed, however, that any real idea of getting out of the way was in 
the old man’s mind. He could not doubt that somehow ne would 
still be in the midst of it, though he professed to be quite sure of 
dying and passing into another life — that was a matter of course; but 
when he rubbed his hands with satisfaction over the completeness of 
this plan, there was no feeling in his mind that completeness in 
volved conclusion. On the contrary, he seemed to see the prospect 
widening out before him. He enjoyed in anticipation not only the 
admirable wisdom of all his own stipulations, but even the amusing 
complications to which they would give birth; and then with a 
thrill of pride and satisfaction looked forward to the time of her 
freedom and happy reign, and power of self -disposal, nor ever once 
said to himself, “ I shall be out of it all — what will it be to me?” 

Hdwever, Mr. Trevor s mind was so full of this new idea that he 
could do nothing but show, over and over again, how beautifully it 
fitted in with every previous arrangement, and hosv naturally every- 
thing led up to this. 

1 Of course, ' he said, to keep you under control all your days 
was what I never thought, my dear. “What I intended all along 
was to train you to a right use of your liberty. Only when you are 
abie to bear the burden, Lucy — when you have seen a great many 
fancies drop off. and a great deal that you have believed in fail you, 
and when you have learned to know what, is the best/' 

“ Do you think that is so hard, papa?” said Lucy, quietly, yet 
with a faint half gleam of a smile. No doubt it was natural that at 
his age he should make * ' a fuss ’ about everything Lucy felt, 
though she Was so sensible that, of course, she would choose noth- 
ing but the best. 

“ Yes, it is very hard,” said the old man; “one tries a great 
many tilings before one comes to that. A good-looking fellow^, per- 
haps, for a lover, or a nice mannered girl for a friend — till you find 
out that they are naught, neither one nor the other, and that you 
have got to begin again; that's the way of the world. Then per 
haps you will choose some others quite different, and the} r will 
cheat you, too. You get a little more and a little more experience 
at every step, and then at the end you will find somebody, as I 
found poor Lucilla, that is really tne best.” 

Lucy looked up at him aghast. The idea made her tremble; first 
one bad and then another, and at last a Lucilla who w'ould die, and 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


95 


be in her turn succeeded by another, who was not the best. This 
gave the girl a shudder. 

“ I would rather put up with the bad ones,” she cried, “ if I am 
fond of them, than go from one to another; it is horrible what you 
are saying, papa. ” 

“ Well, perhaps it is,” said old Trevor, “ life’s not so very beau- 
tiful, whatever you may think just now; but what I am saying is 
right, that is one thing I am certain of. You may content yourself 
with what’s inferior if you like, Lucy; but you can’t expect any 
encouragement from me — ’ ’ 

She looked at him with a little alarm in her eyes. "It would 
be better to have nothing to do with anybody, to live all alone by 
one’s self, and never care for anybody,” she cried. 

“ Many people do that,” said old Trevor, " but 1 don’t approve 
of it, Lucy. Take example by me. I had seen a many before I 
saw your mother, but I never had got any satisfaction to my mind 
till I met with Lucilla. I used to say to myself, this one won’t do, 
and that one won’t do. You see I kept my wits about me, and my 
head clear. Now that’s the plan you must go upon, both with 
friends and with a husband if you marry. You don’t need to marry 
unless you like — I don’t say one thing or the other — you are to 
please yourself. But don’t take the first that comes, don’t take any 
one till you’ve tried him and tested him. And the same with your 
friends — take ’em and leave ’em, and choose again till you have 
found the best. ” 

“ It is horrible, papa!” cried Lucy, almost with tears. 

Then, though she was not an imaginative girl, there suddenly 
came across her mind the stoiy which she had been telling to little 
Jock. She had denied stoutly that it was an allegory, as Jock’s 
more experienced imagination had at once feared; but there v r as 
something in the course of this conversation which chimed in with 
it, which brought it to her mind. Just so had the giant in that 
story sought his strongest and greatest. The end of the tale which 
she had not told to Jock was very incomprehensible to Lucy her* 
self. She had not understood it when it was “ read out loud,” but 
it did not trouble her mind much. She thought it would do for a 
story to tell Jock, that was all. Now she thought of it again as she 
sat over the almonds and raisins opposite to her father and listened 
to him, and shrunk from the map of life which he opened out before 
her. His revelations went up to just about the same point as the 
story she had told to Jock. And after that came the incomprehen- 
sible part, how to discern the best, how to get to the acquaintance of 


96 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' EXGLANT). 


the mysterious conqueror of all. Jock had said Hint was the diffi- 
cult bit. In the story it was all a confusion to Lucy, and she could 
not understand it at all. 

While she was thinking thus her father was talking on, but she 
had lost a good deal of what he was saying when she suddenly came 
to herself again, and began to hear him as if his voice came out of 
a mist. 

“ And when that has happened once or twice, ” old Trevor was 
saying, “ you get sharp, oh, you get sharp! you are up to their 
" devices — you can not be taken in any more. ” • 

“■You speak as if everybody tried to take you in, papa.” 

“Very near everybody,” said old Trevor, grinning, with a 
chuckle; “ not all, I don’t say all — but very near; and the hard 
thing is to find out the ones that don’t want to take you in. That 
is a thing which you have to learn by experience, Lucy. First you 
trust everybody — then you trust nobody; but after awhile the sight 
comes back to your eyes, and you know who to trust. That is about 
the best lesson you can have in this world. I was over fifty before 
I met with your mother; that is to say, I had known her when we 
were younger, but I had not given any attention to her, not haying 
learned then to discriminate. We saw a deal of each other for two 
years before w r e married; so you see I was a long time before I got 
hold of my best, and yet I did get it at the end. 

Lucy was disturbed out of her usual composure by all this alarm- 
ing and discouraging talk, and she was slightly irritated, she could 
scarcely have told* why, by all she had heard about her mother. 
She could not avoid a little retaliation. “ But afterward, ” she said, 
” after — when poor mamma died — was that the best too? ’ 

He had been discoursing as from a pulpit upon his own wisdom 
and success, and received this thrust full in his face with astonish 
ment that was comic. After the first confusion of surprise old 
Trevor laughed and chuckled himself out of breath. “ You have 
me there,” he said, “ Lucy, you have me there. I have not got a 
word to say. We won’t say anything on the subject at all, my 
dear. I told you before that was a mistake.” 

But he was half-flattered, lialf-amused by this return blow. 
During the rest of the evening he would drop into ceaseless chuck 
les, recalling the sudden boldness of the assault. A man of many 
wives is always more flattered than disconcerted by any allusion to 
his successes. It was a mistake, but still he was not ashamed of his 
achievement. When, however, he had taken his glass of port, 
which had more effect upon him than usual in his growing weakness, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


9 7 


the old man grew penitential. “ It was a great mistake,” he said 
again, ‘‘and I can’t help wondering, now and then, how Lucilla 
will take it. She was a very considerate person; but there are 
things the best of women can’t be expected to put up with. I will 
confess to you, Lucy, that it makes me a little uneasy sometimes. 
Oh, yes, it was a mistake.” 

Lucy had been quite reassured when she had joined her father in 
the afternoon after Ford’s warning, and had seen no difference in his 
loolcs; but before the evening was over a vague uneasiness had crept 
ever her. He talked more than usual and sat longer than usual be- 
fore he could be persuaded to go 1o bed. And now and then there 
was something disjointed in his talk. He stopped short in the mid- 
dle of a sentence, and forgot to finish it. He introduced one subject 
into the midst of another. He gave her the same advice several 
times over. After awhile she ceased to notice what he was saying 
altogether, out of anxiety about him. He was not like himself; 
but he would not allow her to leave him. He was more intent on 
having her companionship than she had ever known him. “ Don’t 
go away,” he said, when she did but stir in her chair. As she sat 
and looked at him, having no knitting (as it was Sunday), the spec 
tacle of the feeble old figure, garrulous, holding forth from his 
-chair, scarcely waiting for a reply, struck the girl as if she had seen 
it for the first time. His old cheeks w r ere suffused with a feverish 
red, his eyes were gleaming, his head had a tremble in it, his lean 
old hand, so often used to emphasize w r liat he said, shook wiien he 
held it up. There are moments when the aspects of a familiar 
figure change to us, when w r e see it as strangers see it, but with a 
still keener insight, perceiving in a moment, the wreck which we 
may have seen without seeing it, falling into decay for years. This 
was the revelation which all at once came upon Lucy. She had 
seen nothing unusual about him a few hours ago — now r , quite sud- 
denly, she came to see him as Mr. Rushton had seen him, as he 
appeared to strangers; but in a guise so much the more alarming as 
it concerned her much more closely. She held her brealh as this 
revelation flashed upon her, feeling as if she must cry out and call 
for help, she w T ho was so composed and unexcilable. It seemed to 
Lucy, in her sudden alarm and ignorance, that he might die before 
her eyes. 

This, of course, was an entirely false alarm. Next morning he 
was exactly like himself again, no special feebleness in his aspect, 
and much energy in his mind. As soon as he got settled in his chair 
Mr. Trevor got his big manuscript out, took a fresh pen 'which Ford 


98 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


had mended for him, and began to work with great energy and 
pleasure. Never had he more enjoyed his work; he was putting on 
the corner-stone — finishing the fabric. It took him all the morning 
to put everything down as he had planned it. And it pleased him 
so much that he smiled and chuckled to himself as he wrote, and 
said special phrases over and over under his breath. AH the morn- 
ing through he sat at his table working at it, while little Jock oc- 
cupied his habitual position stretched out upon the white rug before 
the fire, his shoulders raised a little, his head bent over his book. 
Jock was too much absorbed to be aware of anything that was going 
on. The book he had lighted upon that day was Defoe’s “ History 
of the Plague,” and the little fellow was altogether given over to its 
weird fascinations. It was more entrancing even than “ Robinson 
Crusoe. ’ ’ Thus the child and the old man kept each other company 
for hours together; the one betraying his presence occasionally by 
a little flicker of two small blue legs from the white rug, and of the 
pages of his book, itself half buried in the silky whiteness; while 
the other chuckled and muttered as he wrote, delighted with him- 
self and his latest conception. They were both living by the im- 
agination, though in phases so different; the boy carried out of 
himself, lost in the wonderful dream-history which was so much, 
more real than anything else round him; the old man throwing 
himself forward into a future he should never see, enacting a 
dream-life, which was to be when his should be ended and over, 
but which in its visionary distance was also a thousand times more 
real than the dull day to which it gave a fictitious charm. 

When the clause was finished Mr Trevor once more called up 
Ford, and made him acquainted with his new conception. Ford 
studied him attentively while he read it, but he also listened with 
benevolent attention; and he gave his approval to the new plan. 
Seven years! Ford was just about so much the junior of his friend 
and patron. He said to himself, as he listened, that by that time he 
would no longer care to have the responsibility of superintending 
Lucy’s actions; and he graciously concurred m the expediency of 
her liberation. “ If she can not manage her own affairs at thirty 
or so she never will,” he said, “and I think, Mr. Trevor, that 
you’re in the right. 

“ If I go soon,” said the old man, “ she’ll be five-and-twenty, and 
no more; and I think I’ll go soon; but nobody can answer for a 
year or two. Yes, I think it’s a pretty will as it stands; I don’t 
think, without any partiality, that you’ll find many like it. There’s 
nothing that can happen to her, so far as human insight goes, that 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EHGLAND. 


99 


I have not foreseen and left directions for. I hope I have not been 
insensible to my responsibilities, Ford. I’ve tried to be father and 
mother both. If you can point out anything that I’ve neglected — ” 

“ Mr. Trevor,” said the other; “ you’ve thought of a many more 
things than would ever have come into my head. You’ve dis- 
charged your duties nobly; and I and Susan will do our part. You 
need not be afraid; we’ll take your example for our guide, and 
we’ll do our part.” 

‘‘ Just so, just so,” said the old man, not so much interested. It 
was essential, no doubt, that his will should be carried out; but he 
did not realize so clearly, and perhaps he did not wish to realize, 
that he would himself have no hand in carrying it out. When the 
question was put as to how the Fords were to dc their part, his at- 
tention flagged. “You are not to be the first, you know,” he said, 
brusquely; “ there’s my Lady Randolph that comes first.” 

Here Ford began to shake his head. “ If you took my opinion, 
I'd say that was the one weak point,” he said; “ I make bold to say 
it, though I know you will be offended, Mr. Trevor. That’s the 
weak point. It’s well intended, very well intended; but that’s the 
weak point.” 

“You blockhead 1” said the other; but he kept his temper. 
“ You: would keep her in Farafield all her life, I shouldn’t won- 
der, and /lave all the little cads in the place after her, and never let 
her have a glimpse of the world.” 

* I don’t know what you call the world,” said Ford. “ Human 
nature is the same everywhere. We are just the same lot wherever 
you take us; and as for cads, there’s Sir Thomas — I thank the 
Lord 1 don’t know anybody in Farafield — nobody in my own class 
of life — that has been so tiresome, that has been as wild — ” 

“You let Sir Thomas alone,” said old Trevor; “ he never was a 
cad.” 

Upon which Ford continued to shake his head. “It may be a 
word that I don't fathom,” he said; “I don’t know one in Fara- 
field that has given as much trouble; and he’s always in want of 
money; it’s like putting the lamb into the clutches of the wolf. ’* 

“ There are plenty of wolves,” said the old man. “ That's my 
policy: I set one to fight the other, and I wish them joy of it. One 
here and one there, that’s better than a single candidate. And 
while they’re pulling each other to pieces, my little lamb will get 
off scot-free.” 

Ford shook his head persistently, till it seemed doubtful if it ever 
would recover its steadiness. “If I were to speak my mind, ” he 


100 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


said; “there’s one that has a real claim— just one. He’s may be 
too modest to speak for himself; but there is one, if I were to speak 
my mind — ” 

“ Then don’t!” said old Trevor, with a fiercer gleam in his eyes; 
“ that’s my advice to you, Richard Ford. Don’t! I want to hear 
nothing of your one that has a claim. Who has any claim! not a 
soul in the world! Lucy’s fortune is her own — she’s obliged to no- 
body for it. It comes to her, not from me, that I should take upon 
me to pick and choose. She does not get a penny from me; all I 
have I’ve given to the other, and a very good nest-egg for his posi- 
tion in life. But Lucy’s fortune is none of my making; Lucy is 
Lucilla’s daughter.” 

“ Susan’s cousin!” said Ford, instinctively. He regretted it the 
next moment, but he could not withhold this protest. To think 
that all the money should be Lucilla’s, and none of it come 
to Susan, though she was Lucilla’s cousin! It is hard, it must 
be allowed, to see fortunes come so near, yet have no share in them. 
In the family, yet not yours, not the smallest bit yours, save by 
grace and favor of a stranger, a man who is your cousin’s husband, 
indeed, but has no claim otherwise to belong to the family. The 
Fords were not at all ungrateful to old Trevor; but still there were 
moments when this struck them in spite of themselves. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A FALSE ALARM. 

The prophets of evil were not deceived; when a kind of general 
impression arises in respect to an invalid that a crisis is approaching, 
it almost always is justified by the event. During that very night 
there was a sudden alarm; Mr. Trevoi’s bell rang loudly, awaken- 
ing all the house. Lucy flew from her room, hastily gathering her 
dressing-gowm round her, with her light hair hanging about her 
shoulders, and Mrs. Ford appeared in a night-cap, -which was an 
indecorum she recollected long afterward. The maids naturally, 
being less interested, were harder to rouse, and it was Mr. Ford 
nimself who issued forth in the penetrating chill of the early morn- 
ing, still quite dark and silent, not a soul astir, and buttoning him- 
self into his warmest overcoat, went out in the cold to seek a doc- 
tor, who, for his part, was just as unwilling to be roused out of his 
slumbers in the middle of the night. Jock, roused by the sounds. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKD. 


101 


sat up in his little bed, with wide-awake eyes, hearing the bell still 
jar and tinkle, and sounds of people running up- and down-stairs, 
which half frightened, half reassured him. To hear other people 
moving about is always a comfort to a child, and so was the re- 
flection of the lamp at the gateway of the Terrace, which shone 
into his room and kept it light. Jock sat up and gazed with big 
eyes, and wondered, but was too much awed and alarmed by the 
nocturnal disturbance to move; and, indeed, as it turned out after, 
there was not much need for any one to be disturbed. Old Trevor’s 
explanation was that he had woke up with a loud singing in his ears 
and a sense of giddiness, and he could not articulate at first when 
they rushed to his bedside, so that everybody believed it to be a 
“stroke.” But when the doctor came he declared that, though 
the patient’s blood was running like a river in flood, yet there 
was nothing very particular the matter, and that a day or twd’s 
quiet would make him all right. Mrs. Ford, in her night-cap, re- 
mained by the newly lighted file in Mr. Trevor’s room to take care 
of him, but the rest were all sent back to bed, and when the break- 
fast-hour arrived the patient pronounced himself as well as ever. 
He got up at his usual hour, and would not even allow that, as 
Mrs. Ford suggested, he felt “ shaky.” 

“ Not a bit shaky,” he declared, putting out one shrunken shank 
to show how steadily he stood on the other; “ but I thought my 
time was come,” he said. “ I’ll allow I thought I had reached it, 
after looking for it so long. It was a queer feeling. I am just as 
well pleased to put it off a bit, though it must come soon.” 

“ That is true,” Ford said, shaking his head; “ we must all die; 
but the youngest may go off before the oldest, as .happens every 
day.” 

These were the words that little Jock heard as they came into the 
drawing-room, the old man leaning on the arm of the other. Where 
was the youngest to go off to? He understood vaguely, and a mo- 
mentary thrill ran through his little veins. Was it he that might 
“ go ” before his father? it was a thing which seemed to lie between 
the eldest and the youngest. Jock’s mind was full of the plague 
and all its horrible details, and the wonder and mystery of thus 
going “ off ” chimed in with this gloomy yet fascinating study; the 
recollection of the bell tinkling through the streets, the dead-cart 
stopping at the door, scared yet excited him. But there was no 
plague, no dead-cart, no tinkling bell at Farafield. After awhile 
the impression died out of the child’s mind, but scarcely so quickly 
as it did out of the mind of his old father, who already chuckled to 


102 THE GKEATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


himself over the fright he had given the house. Mr. Trevor did 
justice to the people who surrounded him. 

44 When it really comes they will be sorry,” he said; “ but it was 
a disappointment.” 

He liked to think he had disappointed them; even in getting bet- 
ter, a man can not but feel that his own superior sense and strength 
of character have something to do with it. Another man would not 
have rallied, would have been capable of dying perhaps, and cutting 
short all the interest of his story; but not John Trevor, who knew 
better what he was about. 

The night alarm, however, soon became known over Farafield, 
and many people had sufficient interest in the old man and his 
daughter to come or send, and make inquiries. Among these he 
had one visitor who amused and one who angered him. The first 
was a stranger, who sent up a card with the name of Mr. Frank St. 
Clair, and a message from Mrs. Stone, who begged to have the last 
hews of the sufferer. ‘ ‘ Show him up, show him up, ’ ’ old Trevor 
said, his keen eyes twinkling with malice and humor; but when the 
large figure of the young barrister (for that was Mr. Frank St. 
Clair’s profession) entered the room, the old man was impressed, in 
spite of himself, by the solidity and imposing proportions of Mrs. 
Stone’s nephew and candidate; there was an air of respectability 
about him which compelled attention. He was handsome, but he 
was also serious, and had that air of a man who has given hostages 
to society, which nothing confers so surely as this tendency to a 
comfortable and respectable fullness of frame. Old Trevor ac- 
knowledged to himself that this was no young dandy, but a man, 
possibly, of weight of character as well as person; his very tendency 
(to speak politely) to embonpoint conciliated the old man. Schemers 
are seldom fat. Mr. Frank St. Clair looked respectable to the tips 
of his well-brushed boots, and as he looked at him, old Tevor was 
mollified in spite of himself. 

“ Yes, I gave them a fright,” he said. “ I thought myself that 
matters were coming to a crisis; but it was a false alarm. You 
may tell your aunt that I am as well as ever, and as clear in my in- 
tellects as ever — such intellects as I have.” 

“Nobody would doubt that, I think,” said St. Clair; and in- 
deed Mr. Trevor flattered himself that nobody could doubt it. He 
was as clearly aware of the effect upon a stranger of his own keen 
eyes and vivacious wide-awake aspect as any one could be. 

“ There’s no telling,” said the old man; “ some people think they 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 103 

can take me in — which is a mistake, Mr. St. Clair — a great mis- 
take.” 

“ I should think so,” said St. Clair, with easy composure. “ If 
you will let me, I will sit down,” he said; “ if there is nothing to 
occupy you for the moment, I wonder if you will let me ask your 
advice about a little money I have?” 

Again the malicious gleam awoke in old Trevor’s eyes, a mixture 
of suspicion, admiration, and interest moved him. Every man 
who had money interested him more or less; but if this was a dodge 
on Mrs. Stone’s part, the move was one which might have filled 
any like-minded artist with admiration. He chuckled as he invited 
the confidence of his visitor; yet though he thought he saw through 
the deceit, he respected St. Clair all the same for having money to 
invest, even if it were not his own, but lent to him for the occa- 
sion; it threw a halo of interest round him in old Trevor’s eyes. 

“ So that’s the first of them,” he said to himself, when St. Clair 
took his departure; “that’s number one of the pack. Women are 
quick about it, they don’t let the grass grow under their feet. Rush- 
ton will keep quiet, he won’t let his lad show in my sight. But the 
■v^omen are bold — they’re always bold. And I wonder who my lady 
will bring forward?” The old man laughed; he was pleased by the 
thought of the coming struggle. It did not give him any concern 
that his young daughter should be left alone in the midst of it, to 
be competed for by so many hungry aspirants. “ I’d like to be 
there to see the wolves at it,” he said aloud, with a grin on his face. 

At the sound of the voice over his head, little Jock turned round 
upon his rug. Wolves were in his way; from Red Riding-hood up- 
ward, he knew a great deal about them; he had heard them in the 
forest pursuing the travelers, and knew what the how 1 , meant when 
it occurred in a stoiy in the midst of the black winter night. He 
turned right round, with the " History of the Plague ” in his arms, 
and faced his father, looking upward from the rug. “ What is it 
about wolves?” said Jock. 

No question could have sui-prised old Trevor more; he looked 
round him first in suspicion, to see where the voice came from, 
then looked down upon 1 he child with a gape of wonder. Eh t 
do you know anything about wolves, my lad?” he said. 

“ Oh, a great deal!” said Jock, calmly; “ I could tell you heapa 
of stories about them; the worst of all is that one about the woman 
and her children. I told it to Lucy, and she would not let me tell 
it out. Would you like me to tell it to vou?” 

Jock spoke to his father on very much the footing of an equal* 


104 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


They did not, as a rule, take much notice of each other; but the 
curious way in which they pursued their lives together had given 
the old man and the little boy a sort of tacit fellowship, not at all 
like the usual relation between father and child. Not once in two 
or three months was there any conversation between them, and 
this gave all the more importance to their occasional intercourse. 
“ There was once a woman,” said Jock, “ traveling through a wild, 
wild forest, and she had her three little children with her — quite lit- 
tle, little things, littler than me a great deal; when all of a sudden 
she heard pad, pad, something coming behind her. It wasn’t quite 
night, but it was getting dark, darker and darker every moment; 
and the old white horse got awfully frightened, and the forest was 
miles and miles long. She knew she couldn’t come to a village, or 
a house, for ever so long. And she heard them coming on faster 
and faster, sniffing and panting, and all after her, hundreds and 
hundreds of them; they’re like dogs, you know r ,” said Jock paren- 
thetically, looking up from the rug, where he lay on his back, with 
the “ History of the Plague ” laid open on his breast; “ they bark 
and they howl, just like dogs when you hear them far off in the 
woods; but when they’re after you, they go straight before them, 
like the wind blowing, and never make any sound.” 

“ And what became of the woman and the children?” said old 
Trevor, partly amused, partly impressed. 

“ The white horse* galloped on and on,” said Jock, with the in- 
stinct of a story-teller; “ and the wolves came after, pad, pad, all 
like one, though there were hundreds and hundreds of them, and 
the woman in the sleigh (did I tell you it was a sleigh? but I don’t 
know rightly myself what a sleigh is) got wild with fright, and the 
three little things cried, and the trees made a noise against the sky; 
and the w r ood got deeper and deeper, and the night darker and 
darker; and then she heard them all panting behind her, and their 
breath hot upon her, and every moment she thought they would 
jump up behind and crunch her with their teeth — ” 

“Go on, child, go on,” said old Trevor. “I think I’ve heard 
the story; but I don’t remember how she got out of it.” 

“This is what Lucy will never listen to,” said Jock, solemnly; 
■“ she says it can’t be true; she says there never was a woman like 
that. She says she’ll beat me if I go on; but it is the real end to 
the story all the same. Well, you know, the woman was wild; she 

* The poem of Ivan Ivanovitch had not been written in those days, and per- 
haps it might have been above Jock’s understanding. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


105 


didn’t know what she was doing. Just when they were going to 
crunch her with their teeth in her neck, she turned round, and she 
took up one of the children and flung it out into the middle of the 
wolves; and the little thing gave just one more cry (he was crying, 
you know, before), and the wolves caught him in their big teeth, 
and tore him, one a piece here, and another a piece there, hundreds 
and hundreds of them; and the old white horse galloped on and on. 

“ Well, but then that was only one,” said Jock, resuming after 
a pause; “ when they had eaten that little thing all up, they were 
not half satisfied, and they said to each other, ‘ Come on,’ and two 
minutes after, what should the woman hear but the whole mob of 
them after her again, and the sound of them panting and their 
breaths on her neck. And she took hold of another little child — ” 

' ‘ You needn’t tell me any more,” said the old man; “ where did 
you get these dreadful stories; they turn one sick.” 

“ She threw them all out, the first, and the second, and the 
third,” cried the boy, making haste to complete his narrative, 
“ and then she was saved herself. Lucy never gets further than the 
first; but you’ve heard the second. And she says it can’t be true; 
but it is true,” said Jock, severely; ‘‘many people have told it. 
I’ve read another story — ” 

“ Hold your tongue, child,” said the old man. 

Which Jock did at once. He was ready to come forward, to re- 
count his experience, or instruct others by his large amount of mis- 
cellaneous reading whenever it was necessary, but he did not thrust 
his information upon unwilling ears. He turned round again 
promptly, and, laying his book down on the white rug, supported 
himself on his elbows and resumed his reading. Jock had a per- 
fectly good conscience, and could hear any number of parables 
(though he was always suspicious of them) without turning a hair. 

But old Trevor was not equally innocent; he trembled a little 
within himself at that story of remorseless self-preservation. The 
wolves were the image he had himself used, and when he remem- 
bered that he had looked forward to their struggle with amusement, 
and indeed done his utmost to draw them together, without much 
regard for the lamb who was to escape as she could from their 
clutches, a momentary tremor of conscience came over him. But it 
did not last long; impressions of this kind seldom do; and when he 
received a second visit in the evening, this time from Philip Rainy, 
who expressed much solicitude about his health, old Trevor had 
ceased to feel any compunctions about the fierce competition to 
which he was going to expose his child. But he was firmly deter* 


106 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

mined that the first and most natural competitor, the man who was 
of the family, and had a sort of claim to everything that belonged 
to the name, should not be, so to speak, in the running at all. 

“I am very well,” he said, “quite well, thank you; there is 
nothing the matter with me. If people say to the contrary, they’re 
lying, or at best they’re fools meddling in other folks’ affairs. It’s 
, nothing to any one if I’m ill or well.” 

“You must pardon me, uncle,” said Philip, “ but it is something 
- to me.” 

The familiar grin came upon the old man’s face; but it was not 
accompanied with a chuckle of not unkindly mirth, as it had been 
in the case of Mrs. Stone’s nephew, in whose favor there was no 
such potent argument. 

“ I don’t know what it should be to you,” he said, “ Mr. Philip 
Rainy : if you had been waiting for my shoes I could have under- 
stood; but you’ve got ’em, you’ve got ’em, more fool I; and if you 
think there is anything more coming to you when I die, you’re 
mistaken, that’s all I’ve got to say. My will’s made — and there’s 
no legacies in it, not one. My money goes to them that have a 
right to it. There’s no fancy items to satisfy those that have gone 
out of their way, or thought they’d gone out of their way, to flat- 
ter an old man. So that it’s no good, no possible good, to take that 
friendly interest in me.” 

Lucy, who was sitting by when this was said, started and got up 
from her knitting, and went once more behind her father, where she 
stood looking pitifully at Philip, clasping her hands together, and 
imploring him with her eyes not to be angry. That would have 
been inducement enough to bear with the old man’s brutal incivil- 
ity, if there had been nothing more. He gave her a slight, almost 
imperceptible nod, reassuring her, and answered with a calmness 
which did him infinite credit, and indeed cost him a great effort. 

“Iam sorry you think so badly of me,” he said, “ but I will not 
defend myself. I am waiting for no old shoes, heaven knows. I 
should like to be of use to my relations — to you or to Lucy. But if 
you will not let me, I must put up with it. And I will not stay 
longer now, since you have so poor an opinion of me. Good-night, 
I am going away; but I shall not cease to think about you, though 
I do not see you. You have been very kind to me, substantially 
kind,” said Philip, rising slowly with a lingering look at the father 
and daughter, “ I owe all that 1 am, and something of what I may 
I>e, to you, and I want no more, Mr. Trevor, no legacies, nothing 





THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 107 

but a way of showing my gratitude. If I am not to be allowed to 
do this, why, I must submit. Good night.” 

There was a quaver of real feeling in the young man’s voice. It 
was true enough, and if there was something more that was like- 
wise true, the suppi-essio veri is in some cases a very venial fault. 
As for Lucy, what with sympathy, and indignation and shame for 
her father’s conduct, she was more tenderly inclined toward Philip 
than she had ever been in her life. Thus opposition usually works. 
She cast an indignant look at her father, and a strenuous protest in 
the shape of an exclamation, “Papa!” which spoke volumes; and 
then in spite of his call to her to remain she followed Philip as he 
went down-stairs, appealing to him also, in a different way, with 
the tears in her eyes. 

“ You will not mind, Philip; but please don’t stop coming or 
quarrel because he is cross. He is ill, that is the reason, he is not 
himself; but I am sure you are too sensible to mind.” 

Philip shook his head with a smile. “ I fear I am not so sensi- 
ble,” he said. “ I do mind; but Lucy, if you will always speak to 
me as kindly I shall not mind what any one else may say,” lie add- 
ed, with fervor. He h*id never gone so far, or felt inclined to go 
so far before. 

Lucy was surprised by this new tone, and looked at him, not 
with alarm, but with a mild astonishment. However, as it did not 
occur to her that there could be any special meaning in it, she gave 
him her hand kindly as usual, nay, a little more kindly, in that her 
father had used him so badly. 

“ It does not matter very much about me,” she said, “ but I am 
very, very sorry papa has been so — strange. It is only because he 
is ill, very ill still. They all think he is better, but I don’t think 
so; his hand is so hot and trembling, and there is such a wild sort 
of brightness in his eyes. I am not easy about him, out very un- 
happy. I wish to-night was over,” she said, the tears falling in a 
little shower from her eyes. 

“Lucy! let me stay; will you let me stay? He need not know 
that I am here, but I could sit up down-stairs and be ready to run 
for the doctor, or to do anything.” 

“ It is very good of you, Philip; but how would you be fit for 
your work if you sat up all night? No, no, I can not let you do 
that. And perhaps it will not be so bad; perhaps I am— silly,” said 
Lucy, with a dolorous attempt at a smile. 

“ What does the doctor say?” Philip asked. 

He was very sorry for her in all truth and sincerity, besides hav- 


108 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


ing a sense that it would be very good for him to be thus identified 
with her, and show himself as her chief comforter and support at 
this serious moment of her life. 

Mrs. Ford camC out from her parlor as she heard the conversa- 
tion outside. She was Philip’s relation too, and she had decided 
that nothing could be more suitable, if — But like so many other 
good women, she could not let well alone, and to Philip’s great 
vexation here came out, adding her portly presence to the scene. 

“ The doctor is quite satisfied,” said Mrs. Ford, “ quite satisfied. 
He is going on as nicely as possible; you must help me to persuade 
Lucy, Philip, that she must not sit up as she is talking of doing. 
Why should she sit up? I shall be there to do whatever is wanted, 
and to call her if it should be necessary. At her age it is a killing 
thing to sit up all night.” 

“ I have been begging her to let me stay and watch instead,” said 
Philip; “ a chair in your parlor would be all I should want, and I 
should be ready to run for the doctor. ’ ’ 

‘ Oh, no, no,” Lucy said. 

Mrs. Ford wavered for a moment, thinking that a young man was 
much more fit for this duty than her respectable husband, but 
finally decided that it was not to be thought of, remembering Mr. 
Trevor’s dislike to Philip; and then the bell was heard to ring, and 
Lucy ran upstairs anxiously. Mrs. Ford’s parting words, how- 
ever, w T ere very encouraging. 

“ Don’t you take any notice,” she said, “ but come and see her, 
whether you see him or not. He will go some day or other, that’s 
certain, in one of these fits.” 

“ Poor little Lucy!” Philip said. 

“ Yes, it is true, it will be sad for her,” said Mrs. Ford, not 
half sure of what she was saying; “ but yet Lucy will have a great 
deal to be thankful for, whatever happens,” she added, as she again 
bade him good night. 


CHAPTER XY. 

THE SIGNING OF THE WILL. 

After this alarm, however, Mr. Trevor got better, and there 
was an interval of calm. Life resumed its usual routine, and all 
went on as before. During this interval, Frank St. Clair became 
Mr. Trevor’s constant visitor. He saw the old man almost every 
day, and there can be no doubt that he entertained and amused him 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 109 

much. Old Trevor even went so far as to talk to him about the 
will, that all-important document, which was the object of his ex- 
istence — not, indeed, of its actual composition, but of its existence 
as a mysterious authority which was to guide the steps of his suc- 
cessors for years. They had a great many most interesting conver- 
sations about wills. Frank was not a great lawyer, but yet he 
could remember some cases which had made a noise in their day, 
and some which had kept families in great commotion and trouble 
without making much noise in the world; and lie took a somewhat 
malicious pleasure in telling his new acquaintance alarming stories 
of wills that had been lost, then found again to the confusion of 
every rational arrangement; and of wills that had been suppressed, 
and of some which no one ha’d paid any attention to, setting aside 
their stipulations entirely, almost before the testator was cold in his 
grave. This was very startling to old Trevor. He inquired into it 
with a wonderful look of anxiety on his face. There was one will, 
in particular, of which his informant told him, with malicious 
calm, in which there was question of a house which the testator 
had built for his daughter, and which he left to her under the con- 
dition that it should never be let or sold, but remain a home for her 
and her children forever. What had happened? the house had been 
let directly, the daughter not finding it convenient to live there, and 
it was now about to be sold. Yes, the will was perfectly sound, 
not contested by any one; had been proved in due form, and ad- 
ministered to, and all formalities fulfilled— except in this important 
particular of carrying it out. Old Trevor’s throat grew dry as he 
listened, the color went out of his face. 

“ But — but — but — ” he said, “ was it allowed — was it permitted? 
Why wasn’t it put a stop to? You must be making a mistake. No- 
body can go against a will! A will! You forget what you’re say- 
ing — a will is part of the law.” 

‘ c Who was to put a stop to it?” said St. Clair, calmly. “ Who 
was to interfere? There were several brothers and sisters, and 
none of them wanted the house to stand empty, though the father 
so willed it. Whose business was it to stand up for the will? There 
was no one to interfere.” 

“ That is the most wonderful thing I ever heard in my life, the 
most wonderful thing,” said the old man, stammering and stum- 
bling. “ I can not understand it. A will— and they paid no atten- 
tion to it. I never heard of such a thing in my life.” 

“ Oh, I have heard of a great many such things,” said St. Clair, 
and he gave a little sketch— which, indeed, was interesting — of 


110 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


careful testaments set aside by the law, or made null by some 
trifling omission, or solemnly ignored by the very heirs they ap- 
pointed. It was a cruel joke. Poor old Trevor did not get over it 
for a long time. He sat and thought of it all the rest of the day. 
Who was to interfere? who was to make sure that anybody would 
do as he had ordained — would take upon them the trouble of 
superintending all Lucy’s actions, and following out his code? He 
had Ford up when St. Clair left, and talked to him long on the 
subject, not betraying his fears, by cunningly endeavoring to pledge 
him, over and over, to the carrying out of his views. “You would 
not see my will neglected after I’m gone? If the others should be 
careless, or refuse the trouble, you’d always see justice done, Ford? 
I am sure I can trust in you whatever happens, ” the old man said. 

“ The best thing to do is to get the will signed and sealed and 
delivered,” said Ford; “ that is the first way of making it sure. So 
long as you are adding a little bit every day, you can never be cer- 
tain. Yes, yes, you may trust in me, Mr. Trevor. I would never 
dare to go against a dead person’s will. I’d expect to be haunted 
every night of my life. You may trust in me; but I can’t answer 
for others. I have charge of half of the time, no more. I can’t 
answer for others — Lady Randolph will pay little attention to me.” 

“ Lady Randolph will pay attention to her own interests,” said 
the old man. 

“ Ah! that she will,” cried Ford, with energy. There was much 
more meaning in the tone than in the words; and the inference was 
not agreeable to old Trevor, who retired within himself, and sat for 
the rest of the afternoon with a very serious face ruminating how 
to invent safeguards for the will, which, however, he would not 
sign, as Ford suggested. “ There’s something more I want to put 
in,” the old man said pettishly. “ I’ll try to wind it all up to-mor 
row.” But as a matter of fact, he did not want to wind it all up, 
or conclude the document. When he did so, his occupation would 
be gone. It would be the conclusion of all things. With a natural 
shrinking he thrust this last action from him, notwithstanding the 
composure with which he had long regarded his own death as some- 
thing necessary to the fulfillment of his intentions. But he did not 
feel disposed to put his final seal to it, and dismiss himself out of 
the world with a stroke of his pen. To-morrow was soon enough. 
When Lucy returned from school, she found him shivering bv the 
fire. It was a cold day, but he was chilled by more than the 
weather; chilled in his vivacious spirit, which had done more 1o 
keep him warm than his good fire or warmly lined dressing gown. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. Ill 

** No, I am not ill,” he said, in answer to her inquiries, “ not at all 
poorly, only low, Lucy. If you and the rest should throw me over- 
board after I am gone; if it should turn out that I have taken all this 
trouble for nothing — thinking of you night and day, and planning 
for yoqr good and your happiness — if it should be all for nothing, 
Lucy?” 

“But how could that be,” said Lucy, with her usual calm, 
“ when you hate been so particular — when you have written it all 
. down?” 

“ Yes, I have written it all down,” he said, “ and it can’t come 
to nothing, if you will be a good girl, and take care that all your 
old father’s wishes are carried out. ’ ’ 

“ Papa, I promise you, all you have arranged about me, and all 
your wishes for me, shall be carried out,” said Lucy, with a very 
slight emphasis upon the pronoun, which indicated a mental reser- 
vation, but her father did not notice this. His voice, already en- 
feebled, took a coaxing, beseeching tone. 

“ I’ll not fear anything, I’ll try not to fear anything, if you’ll 
give me your promise. Give me your promise, Lucy,” he said, 
and Lucy repeated with more effusion, when she saw the feverish 
uneasiness in which he was, the promise she had already made. 

“ Except about Jock,” she said, within herself; but even if she 
had said it aloud her father’s thoughts were too much bent on the 
general question to have remarked this. Ford, who was very anx- 
ious too, beckoned to her from behind the screen, and whispered, 
“ Get him to sign it, ask him to sign it!” with the most energetic 
gesticulations; but how could Lucy press such a request upon her 
father? They were ali anxious in the house that evening, and Mrs. 
Ford sat up all night, and her husband lay on the sofa in his 
clothes, fearing a midnight summons; but it was not till the next 
evening that the blow came. When their anxiety had been soft- 
ened, and their precautions forgotten, the loud jar and tinkle of the 
bell once more woke little Jock in his little bed, and Ford from his 
comfortable slumbers; and this time it was no false alarm. Old 
Trevor was seized at last by the paralytic attack which had been 
hovering over him for some time. Ford going hastily for the doc- 
tor caught a bronchitis which kept him in bed for a week (just, his 
wife said, like a man — when he is most wanted), but the old man 
had his death-stroke. The house changed all at once, as sudden 
and dangerous illness always changes the abode it dwells in. All 
thought, all consideration were merged in the sick-room. For the 
first few' days not even the affairs which lie had left unsettled w'ere 


112 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


thought of. The poor chilly blue-and-white drawing-room in 
which he had spent his days stood vacant, colder, and more com- 
monplace than ever, yet with a pathos in its nakedness. The blot- 
ting-hook, with the big blue folio projecting on every side, still lay 
on the writing-table where it had lain so long; but nobody touched 
it except the house-maid who dusted it daily, and was often tempted 
to take the sheaf of untidy papers to light her fire. What could it 
have mattered if she had lighted her fire with them? The work 
upon which the old man had spent so much of his fading life was 
of little importance now. No one thought of it except Ford, who at ' 
the worst of his bronchitis mourned over the uncompleted docu- 
ment. 

“ Will he ever come to himself, doctor? Will he ever have the 
use of his faculties?” he moaned; but even this no one could tell. 

The old man lay for more than a week in this state of uncon- 
sciousness; but after a time began to give faint indications of re- 
turning intelligence. He could nol move nor speak, but his eyes 
regained a gleam of meaning, and very awful it was to see this re- 
awakening, and to guess at the desires and feelings that awoke 
dimly, coursing like lights and shadows, a dumb language upon his 
countenance. One night Lucy felt that his eyes were fixed upon 
her with more meaning than before, and the three anxious people 
gathered round the bed, questioning and consulting each other. 

He was like a prisoner, making faint half distinguishable gestures 
beyond the bars of his prison — questions on which deliverance might 
depend, but which the watchers could not understand. Presently 
the efforts increased, the powerless ashy old hand which lay on the 
coverlet, all the fingers in a helpless heap together, began to flicker 
in vague movement. Old Trevor’s eyes had not been remarkable 
for any force of expression, for nothing indeed, save for the keen- 
ness of his seeing when he was well. They had been small and 
sharp, and of a reddish gray, with puckered eyelids, making them 
smaller than they were by nature. Now they seemed to standout 
enlarged and clear, and full of a spiritual force, which was partly 
weakness and partly the feverish dumb impotence of a desire to 
which he could not give words. They all gathered closely round, 
as anxious and not less helpless than he. Lucy in her inexperience 
was driven desperate by this crisis. She knelt down by the bedside, 
speaking to him wildly, clasping her hands, and beseeching, ‘ ‘ What 
is it? What is it? Oh, papa, what is it? Try and speak to me, 
she cried. This hopeless kind of interrogation went on for some* 
time without any result, and they had all subsided again into the 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 113 

quietness of despair, when Lucy was suddenly enlightened by a 
movement of the old man’s crumpled fingers, which he had man- 
aged to curve as if holding a pen. “ He w r ants to write,” she said, 
hurrying to find a pencil and paper, but these were rejected by 
an indignant gleam from the sufferer’s eyes. 

“It is pen and ink he wants,” Lucy cried in desperation, yet tidy 
still; “ dear papa, this will be easier, and will not make stains; not 
that! Oh, what is it, then you want? w T hat is it he wants? can 
no one guess what it is?” 

“ It is of no use,” said Ford; “ he wanls to write, but he can’t, 
that’s the whole matter: he has something to tell us, but he can’t. 
It’s the will, he has never signed the will. Doctor, is he fit? would 
it be any good?” 

The doctor had just come in, and stood shaking his head. 

“Let him try,” he said; “I suppose it can’t do any harm, at 
least.” 

They thought they saw a softening of satisfaction in the patient’s 
eyes, and Ford ran to get the papers, while they all gathered round 
more like conspirators about to drag some forced concession from the 
dying, than anxious attendants seeking every means of satisfying 
a last desire. Then the old man’s lips began to move. To his own 
consciousness he w r as evidently demanding something, struggling 
with his eyes almost bursting from his head. They raised him up, 
following the imperative demand made by his face, and put the 
familiar document before him. His eyes, they thought, brightened 
at the sight of it; something like a smile came upon his ashy and 
somewhat contorted countenance. Though he was supported like a 
log of wood by Ford and Lucy, yet his skeleton figure, raised erect, 
took an air of dominance and energy. He had reigned in a fantas- 
tic visionary world where everything was subject to his will when 
he had composed these papers, and something of the same senti- 
ment -was in his aspect now. He clutched the pen in that bundle 
of bony fingers, then gave a glance of triumph round upon them 
all, and dabbed down the pen upon the paper with that skeleton 
hand. 

What had he put there? A blot, nothing more. 

A perception that he had not succeeded, a gleam of anguish went 
over his face; and then grasping the pen with increased energy in a 
wildly renewed effort, he brought it down in a sea of ink, with a 
helpless daub as unmeaning as before. Then a groan came from 
his shriveled bosom; he let the pen drop, and dropped himself like 
a log of wood. 


114 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


The doctor had been standing by all the time, shaking his head; 
he interfered now in a passionless, easy tone. 

“ There is no harm done,” he said; “ it could not have stood had 
he succeeded; nobody could have said his mind was in a fit state. 
Don’t take it away, but wait and have patience. After this he may 
mend, most likely he will mend.” 

“ Papa,” cried Lucy, close to his ear, “ do you hear that? You 
are not to mind, you will still be able to do it. Do you hear, papa?” 

The old man made no response. Another groan, the very utter- 
ance of despair, broke from him. His eyes closed, his bony fingers 
fell on the coverlet, a collection of contracted joints, helpless as they 
had been before. He made a half fling of intended movement, with- 
out strength to carry his intention out. What he wanted was evi- 
dently to turn his head from the light, to turn the countenance to 
the wall; what image is there which speaks more eloquently of 
that despair which is moral death? The spectators stood by mourn- 
fully, with but half a sense of the full tragic meaning of the scene, 
yet vaguely impressed by it, feeling something of the horrible sense 
of failure, tragical, yet stupefying, which invaded all the half- 
awakened faculties of the chief sufferer. Even now they were but 
half aware of it, Lucy looking on with infinite pity and awe, strug 
gling to assure the half deafened ear that it did not matter, that all 
would be well, while the Fords quickened by self-interest, realized 
with a dull dismay the loss, the misfortune, which would affect 
themselves. But the real tragedy remained concentrated in that 
worn-out old body and imprisoned soul. How much of his life was 
in those elaborate plans and settlements! and he had failed at the 
last moment to give them the necessary warrant. The old man 
closed his eyes, and, so far as his will went, flung himself away 
from the light, 1 urned his face to the wall, yet could not do even 
that, in the prostration of all his powers. 

** If he can sleep, he may wake — himself,” the doctor said ‘doubt- 
fully. It was just as likely he might not wake at all. But the 
light was carefully shaded, and the nurse, who had no anxiety to 
disturb her, and the calm of professional serenity to keep her com- 
posed, took the place of the other watchers. The doctor, who was 
interested in an unusual, ‘case,” and who was a young man, as 
yet without much practice, offered to Ford, who was excited and 
worn out, to remain, that there might be help at hand, and a pro- 
fessional guarantee in case of any new incident; and this being set- 
tled, sent all the other watchers to rest. Lucy, though she would 
fain have stayed with her father, fell asleep— how could she help it? 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


115 


after so many broken nights — the moment her young head touched 
the pillow. The Fords were more wakeful, and retired, more to 
consult together than to sleep, talking in whispers, though nothing 
they could have said on the upper floor could have reached the sick- 
room, and full of alarm and trouble as to the consequences of the 
future. Mrs. Ford, for her part, employed this moment of relief 
chiefly in crying and mourning over “ their luck/’ which no doubt 
would be enough to secure that the old man should die without 
signing the charter of their privileges. But even the whispering 
and weeping came to an end at last, and all was still in the house, 
where the doctor occupied the forsaken drawing-room, so bare and 
chilly, and the nurse watched in the silent chamber, and old Tre- 
vor lay between life and death. 

The only one of the family who could not rest was little Jock. 
Who does not remember that sleeplessness of childhood which is 
more desolate and more restless in its contradiction of nature, and 
innocent vacancy than even the maturer misery of wakeful nights 
all rustling full of care and thought? Jock had been waked out of 
his first sleep by the muffled coming and going, the sound of sub- 
dued steps and whispering voices. He had heard a great deal which 
** the family ” are never supposed to hear. He heard the doctor’s 
whispered conference with the Fords in the passage. ‘‘I can say 
nothing with certainty,” the doctor had said; “ if he can sleep he 
may be himself in the morning, and able to attend to his business.” 
“ Or he may pass away, ” Mr. Ford had said; “ at the dawning. 
That is the time when they get their release.” Pass away! Jock 
wondered, with a shiver, what it meant. Visions flitted before his 
eyes of his father’s figure, like that of Time, which he had seen on 
an old almanac, his gray locks flying behind him, and a long staff 
in his hand. Where would he go to in the dark, or at the dawning? 
Jock tried to turn his face to the wall, away from the long mysteri- 
ous window, which attracted his gaze in spite of himself, and 
through which he almost expected to see some weird passenger step 
forth. His door was open, as he liked to have it, and the faint light 
shining through it usually afforded him a little consolation; but on 
this particular night, among his vague horrors, this too became a 
dangerous opening, through which some terrible figure might sud- 
denly appear. He was obliged to turn round again, to keep both 
door and window within sight. And all kinds of visions flitted be- 
fore him. The noise of a wagon far off on the road, across the com- 
mon, suggested the dead-cart of the Plague, rolling heavily, stop- 
ping here and there to take up its horrible load. He seemed to hear 


116 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

the bell tinkle, the heavy tramp of the attendants; and at any 
moment the child felt the door might be pushed open, and some one 
come to take him away, and toss him among all those confused 
limbs and dead faces. Or was it his father whom they would seize 
as he “ passed away,” with his gray hair blown about by the winds. 
Then Jock’s imagination changed the theme, and he was in the val- 
ley of death with Christian, hearing all those horrible whispers on 
every side, and looking into the mouth of hell. He did everything 
he could to get to sleep; he counted, as far as his knowledge of 
numbers would go, and said to himself all the poetry he knew; but 
all was of no avail. When he began to see the walls of his little 
room grow more distinct round him in a faint blueness, Jock was 
not encouraged by the prospect of day-break. He thought of what 
Mr. Ford had said, and of the people who were “ released ” at the 
dawning, and he could not bear it any longer; he sprung from his 
bed, and rushed toward the light in the passage, a light which was 
more cheerful, more reassuring, than the pale beginning of the day. 
The door of his father’s room was ajar, and the light was burning 
within, and a faint glimmer as of firelight. Jock crept in, trem- 
bling and shivering, in his little white night-gown, like an incarna- 
tion of the white, cold, tremulous, infantile day. 

Jock stole in very quietly, feeling protection in the warmth and 
stillness; he edged his way in the shadow of the curtains, drawing 
instinctively toward the fire, but afraid of being seen and turned 
out again. He was afraid, yet he was very curious and anxious 
about the bed, in which he knew his father was lying. The cur- 
tains at the head were thrown back, twisted and pushed out of the 
way to give more air; and there the pale gray head of the old man 
revealed itself on the pillow, lying motionless. Jock stopped short 
with a sob in his throat, and terror, too intense for expression, in 
his soul. His father had not “ passed away;” but whether he w T as 
alive or dead, Jock could not tell. The nurse was dozing in the 
stillness, in her chair by the fire. The day was rising, penetrating, 
even here, between the closed curtains, with that chill, all pervading 
blueness; it was the moment when every watch relaxes, 'when the 
strain is relieved, and weariness makes itself felt. Not a sound was 
to be heard, except now and then the ashes falling, and the breath- 
ing of the strange woman in the big chair, who was almost as alarm- 
ing an object to Jock as his father. The child stood shivering, his 
mouth half open, to cry, the sob arrested, by pure terror, in his 
throat. 

And whether it was that the sob escaped unawares, or that some 


THE GKEATEST HEIKESS IN ENGLAND. 


117 


sense of the presence of another living creature in the room, that 
subtle consciousness with which the atmosphere seems to penetrate 
itself, of a living and thinking soul in it, reached the old man on 
the bed, it is impossible to say; but while Jock stood watching, his 
father suddenly opened his eyes, and turned, ever so little, yet 
turned toward him. Jock was not aware that the old man had been 
up to this time unable to move, but his imagination was excited, 
and the instantaneous revival into awful life of the mute figure on 
the bed produced the strangest effect upon him. A wild scream 
burst from his lips; he ran out to the stafrs crying wildly. “ He has 
got his release,” Jock cried, not knowing what he said. 

The cry woke the nurse, brought the young doctor, drowsy and 
confused, from the next room, and Lucy flying, all her fair locks 
about her shoulders, down stairs. The Fords followed more slowly 
— the very maids were roused. But the release which the old man 
had got was not of the kind anticipated by his companions. He was 
liberated from the disease, which nobody had hoped; he had re- 
covered his speech, though his utterance was greatly changed and 
impeded; and, though one side remained powerless, he retained the 
use of the other. He was even so much himself as to chuckle 
feebly, but quietly, when the doctor returned a few hours later, and 
pronounced him to be almost miraculously better. “I’ll trouble 
you, doctor, to witness it,” the old man said, babbling over the 
words, and looking with his enlarged but dimmed eyes at the 
papers by his bedside. “I’ve got something to add; but I’ll not put 
off and cheat myself, not put off and cheat* myself again.” This 
they thought was what he said. And thus the will got signed at 
last. 

He lingered for some time after, continually endeavoring to re- 
sume his old work, and now and then becoming sufficiently articu- 
late to give full evidence of the perfect possession of his faculties. 
But within a week a third seizure carried off the old man without 
power of protest or remedy. His unexpressed intentions died with 
him, but the words, “ I’ve something to add,” were the last he said. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE READING OF THE WILL. 

Little Jock Trevor had never been a favorite with his father; 
there had been between them nothing of the caressing intercourse 
which generally exists between a very old father and a young child. 


118 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


He was not the pet or plaything of the old man, who had remorse- 
lessly sentenced him to as complete a separation as was possible 
from his sister. Bui , nevertheless, Jock had grown up literally at 
his father’s feet, and the world became suddenly very vacant and 
strange to him when the familiar figure was withdrawn. The little 
fellow did not understand life without this central point of stability 
and power in it; he had been used to the old man’s presence, to the 
half-comprehended talks which went on over his head, and to the 
background of that mysterious aged life filled with so many things 
beyond Jock’s understanding, which yet afforded depth and fullness 
to his strange perceptions of the mysterious world. He and his 
books had lain in the foreground in a varying atmosphere of visions, 
but behind had always been that pervading consciousness of some- 
thing more important, a dimly apprehended world of fact. So it 
happened that, of all the household at the Terrace, it was little Jock 
who felt his father’s death the most deeply; his nerves had suffered 
from contact with that still more mysterious dying which he could 
not understand. He could not get out of his childish mind the im- 
pression made upon him by the sudden opening, in the dreadful 
silence of his father’s eyes. He who had spent all his life alone 
could be left alone no longer; he followed Lucy about wherever she 
went, holding tightly by her hand. There was no one to interfere, 
or to prevent the hitherto neglected child from becoming the chief 
interest of the house. He felt the loss far more, though it was to 
his immediate advantage, than Lucy did, who cried a little when 
she woke every morning at the recollection, but put on her crape 
with a certain melancholy pleasure in the completeness and “ depth ” 
of her mourning. Mrs. Ford, though she cried too, could not but 
admire and wonder at these black dresses covered with crape, which 
she felt it would have been a pleasure to old Mr. Trevor to see, so 
“ deep ” were they, and showing so much respect. It was almost 
like widows’ mourning, she declared, deeper far than that which 
ordinary mourners wore for a parent; but then, when you con- 
sidered what Lucy had lost — and gained! 

But little Jock got no satisfaction out of his hat-band; he found 
no comfort in anything but Lucy’s hand, which he clung to as his 
only anchor. He went to the funeral holding fast by her, half hid- 
den in her dress. The by-standers were deeply touched by the sight 
of the young girl so composed and firm, and the poor little boy with 
his scared eyes. Many an eye was bent upon them as they stood by 
the grave, two creatures so close together that they looked but one, 
yet, as all the spectators knew, so far apart in reality, so unlike each 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


119 


other in their prospects. Was it possible that she, a girl, was to 
have everything and he nothing, people asked each other with in- 
dignation; and, notwithstanding the fact that all Farafield knew it 
was Lucilla Rainy’s money which made Lucy Trevor an heiress, 
still it would have shocked public opinion less if the boy had in- 
herited the larger share, though he was, as old Trevor was so feel- 
ingly aware, an insult to Lucilla Rainy. So strong is prejudice that 
the moral sense of the population would have felt it less had poor 
Lucilla ’s money been appropriated to make an “ eldest son ” of her 
successor’s child. 

The funeral had attracted a great following. The shop-keeping 
class, many of whom had received their education at old John Tre- 
vor’s school, and the upper class, of whom several had received les- 
sons from him, and who were in general powerfully moved by the 
acquisition into their ranks of a new and unknown personage, a 
great heiress, who henceforward, they made no doubt, would take 
her fitting place among them, filled the church and church-yard, 
and looked on at the ceremony, if not with much sympathy, yet 
with great interest. Almost everybody, indeed, was there. A car- 
riage from the Hall followed the procession from the house, and 
Lady Randolph herself arrived from the station before the service 
in the church was over, and followed to the grave, though no one 
had expected such a compliment, carefully dressed in black, and 
with a gauze veil which, Mrs. Ford remarked, was almost as 
** deep ” as crape. It gave Lucy a certain satisfaction to see, 
though it was through her tears, the crowds of people: they were 
paying him due respect. In that, as in everything, respect was his 
due, and he was getting it in full measure. She felt that he himself 
would have been pleased had he been there; and it was very diffi- 
cult to believe that somehow or other he was not there, seeing how 
everything went on. He would have chuckled over it had he seen 
it; he would have felt the compliment; and Lucy felt it. When, 
however, she saw how large a party accompanied her home after all 
was over, and understood that she was to go into the drawing -room 
and hear the will read among all these people, Lucy could not but 
feel that it was very “ trying,” as Mrs. Ford said; but yet she did 
it dutifully, as she was told, not feeling that there was any choice 
left her, or that she could refuse to do whatever was thought neces- 
sary. It was difficult to disengage herself from Jock, and persuade 
him that it was best for him to lie down on the sofa down-stairs and 
allow himself to be read to. He consented at last, and then Lucy 
felt that the loss of his small hand clinging to hers took away a 


120 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN" ENGLAND. 


great part of her strength; hut she was not a girl who stopped to 
consider what she could or could not do. She did what she was 
told, always a more satisfactory rule. 

There were a great many people in the room when Lucy went in, 
leaning, much against her will, on Mrs. Ford’s arm. She was quite 
able to walk by herself, and did not indeed like the careful and 
somewhat fussy support which was given her, but she put up with 
it, looking straight before her, not to meet the compassionating 
looks which Mrs. Ford thought it part of her role to address to the 
orphan.' “ Yes, my darling, it's a great trial for you,” Mrs. Ford 
kept saying, “ a great trial, my love, but you will be supported if 
you are brave; and I am sure you will be brave, my dearie-dear.” 
Now it was not Mrs. Ford’s custom to call Lucy her darling and 
her dearie-dear, which confused the girl; but all the same she re- 
signed herself. Some one rose when she came in and folded her 
in a large embrace. Floods of black silk and waves of perfume 
seemed to pass over her head, and then she emerged, catching her 
breath a little. This was Lady Randolph, who was large, but hand- 
some and comely, and filled up a great part of what space there was 
to spare. Seated at a little distance was Mrs. Stone, who showed 
her more delicate sense of Lucy’s “ trial ” only by giving her a look 
in which pity was tempered by encouragement, and a slight friendly 
nod. Besides these ladies, whom she identified at once, there seemed 
to Lucy to be a cloud of men. All were silent, looking at her as 
she came in; all were in black, black gloves making themselves 
painfully apparent on the hands of the ladies. It was before the 
time when black paws became the fashion on all occasions. Even 
Mr. Ford wore black gloves; it was an important part of the gen- 
eral “ respect.” After awhile, even the men became comprehensi- 
ble to Lucy. There was Mr. Rusliton, the town clerk, and Mr. 
Chervil, from London, and another lawyer with a large blue bag, 
whom she did not know. Seated near these gentlemen, with an 
amiable, patronizing air which seemed to say, “ I am very glad to 
countenance you, but what can I have to do here?” was, to the 
surprise of most of the company, the rector, who had so placed 
himself that, though he did not know what he was wanted for, he 
had the look of being a kind of chairman of the assembly; while 
near the door, sitting on the edge of his seat, holding his hat in one 
hand, and brushing it carefully with the other, was Mr. William- 
son, the Dissenting minister. Mr. Williamson did not at all know 
how he was to be received in this company. They were all 
“ church people,” even the Fords, though they had begun on other 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


121 


principles. And John Trevor had just been buried, though he was 
a stanch old Nonconformist, with the ceremonials of the church. 
Mr. Williamson did not know whether to be defiant or conciliatory. 
Sometimes he smiled at his hat, smoothing it round and round. 
The hat-band had been taken off, and carefully folded by to take 
home to his wife; in this point he had taken example by the rector, 
who was very well used to the sort of thing, and did not like any- 
thing to be wasted. Clergymen’s wives are very well aware that 
hat-bands are always made of the richest of silk. 

Mr. Rushton made a little explanation informing the company 
that their late worthy friend had "wished them all to hear at least 
one part of his will, and 1o accept a trust which it had been his great 
desire to confide to them; and then the reading began. It is always 
a curious ceremonial, and often affords scope for the development 
of strong emotions; but in this case it was not so. There was great 
curiosity on the subject, but no anxiety. Once, indeed, when the 
testator requested each person present to accept fifty pounds for a 
ring, a little involuntary liveliness, a rustle of attention, ran through 
the room. Though Lady Randolph and Mrs. Stone, the rector, 
and Mr. Williamson, had nothing in common with each other, 
they exchanged an involuntary glance, and the corners of their 
mouths rose perceptibly. Fifty pounds is not much, but there are 
few people who would not be pleased to have such a little present 
made to them quite unexpectedly. Their mouths relaxed a little, 
there was a softening of expression, and it would be impossible to 
deny that Mr. Trevor rose several degrees in their opinion. But 
beyond this little wave of pleasurable sentiment there was no emo- 
tion called for, except surprise. 

The will took a great deal of reading: it was a very long docu- 
ment, or succession of documents, for the very enumeration of the 
codicils took some time. These were all read in a clear monoto- 
nous voice which brought a softening haze of drowsiness on the 
assembly. Perhaps no individual present fully realized all the pro- 
visoes. Some of them were hid in technical language, some con- 
fused by being mixed up with long details of the money and prop- 
erty bequeathed. The first and chief body of the will, which be- 
queathed three thousand pounds in the funds to the testator’s son, 
and all the rest of his property to his daughter, “ as the only heir 
and descendant of her mother, my wife, Lucilla Rainy, through 
whom the property came,” was brief and succinct enough. It had 
none of the rambling elaboration of the later additions. When 
John Trevor had executed it he had been still a strong man, very 


122 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


energetic in the management of . his own affairs, but not dominated 
by any master idea. It was plain justice, as he apprehended it, but 
he had not begun to frame the theories which filled his later days. 
As the will was read, the door opened and Philip Rainy came into 
the room. There was a slight general stir, a common movement* 
very faint, but universal in disapproval of the entrance of any in- 
truder. Every one of those people, w T ith no right that they knew of 
to be there, felt a thrill of indignation go over them at the sight of 
a stranger. What business had he to be present? But after the stir 
there was an equally general pause. Lady Randolph, the only one 
who did not know Philip, looked at the lawyers. But the lawyers 
made no response. The voice of the reader went on again, the 
hearers fell into their previous half drowse of attention; and the 
young man who had nothing at all to do with it, but who was the 
nearest relation of the orphans, stood in his black clothes leaning 
against the door. And there was not any drowse about Philip; he 
listened, and he made out every word. 

When the codicils approached a conclusion, the drowse disap- 
peared from the company in general. It began to introduce their 
own names, which is a sure way of interesting people. When the 
clause was read, which described the future course of Lucy’s life, 
how it was to be spent and where, there was a little stir among those 
who were immediately concerned. Lady Randolph sat up more 
erect in her chair, and held her head higher with a complacence 
and sense of importance which it would have been impossible to ex- 
press more delicately; the Fords, less well-bred, looked at each 
other, and Mrs Ford began- to cry. The spectators all listened 
keenly; their surprise and their curiosity rose to a higher heat. 
Then came the appointment of the marriage committee, at which 
the little thrill which had been visible in the others communicated 
itself to all the company. Each individual sat up, straightened his 
or her back, holding up their several heads, and listened with a 
sense of importance and satisfaction, mingled with, in some of them, 
a perception of the ludicrous side of the arrangement; and after 
this there was little more. 

During the whole of the proceedings Philip Rainy, undisturbed 
and undisturbing, stood up leaning against the door. It was all new 
to him, and much of it was far from agreeable; but he made no 
sign. He had no business to be there— all these strangers, he could 
not but feel with a little bitterness, had come by invitation, and had 
a right to the place they occupied; but he had nothing to do with 
it. Nevertheless it was something, it was a tacit acknowledgment 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


123 


that he had something to do with it that no one remonstrated or 
took any notice of his presence. And he took no notice, made no 
remark; but listened with the keenest attention. Yes, there was 
one on whom none of the provisions were lost, who never felt 
drowsy, hut listened with his very ears tingling, and his mind con- 
centrated upon what he heard; he missed nothing, the technical word- 
ing did not confuse him, each new particular stirred up his thoughts 
to a rapidity and energy of action such as he had never before been 
conscious of. He stood betraying nothing, looking at all the com- 
placent assembly, which regarded him as an outsider; and as each 
new r detail was read, swiftly, silently opposed to it in his mind a 
system of counteraction. All these people with their little glow r and 
sense of satisfaction were to him like so many lav-figures round the 
table: dream-people not worth taking into consideration. But on 
the other side he seemed to see old Trevor chuckling, and waving a 
visionary hand at him. “ There is not a loop-hole to let you in,” 
the old ghost seemed to say; and Philip ground his teeth, and said 
within him, “ We shall see.” 

As for the members of the marriage committee, those of them 
who were not previously aware of the charge committed to them 
were filled with amaze, and showed it each in his or her own way. 
Mrs. Stone and the Fords sat fast, with a half smile on their face, 
by way of showing that to them the idea was already familiar. But 
Lady Randolph was considerably disturbed. She pushed back her 
chair a little, and looked round with a certain dismay, her eyes 
opening wider, her lips parting, her breast heaving w r ith a half 
sigh, half sob of surprise. “ All these people!” she seemed to say, 
giving a second critical look round. The rector w r as still more sur- 
prised — if that were possible; but he took his surprise in a genial 
way. He began to laugh gently, under his breath as it were. He 
was not a relation, nor even a friend, and he was not called upon to 
be very serious on the death of old Trevor. He laughed, but quietly 
and decorously, only enough to express a certain puzzled conster- 
nation and sense of absurdity, yet consciousness that old Trevor 
had shown a certain good sense in choosing himself. As for Mr. 
Williamson, he was thunderstruck; he left off smoothing his hat; 
he, too, looked round him bewildered, as if for instruction. How 
had his name been placed on such a list? and he ended with a fur- 
tive glance at the rector, who was the member of the company who 
interested him most. When the voice of the reader stopped there 
was a curious momentary pause. 

‘ ‘ This is a very astonishing arrangement, ’ ’ said the rector, rub- 


124 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


bing his hands; “ an extremely strange arrangement. I don’t see 
how we are to carry it out. Don’t you think there is something a 
little odd— I mean, something eccentric — there always was a cer- 
tain eccentricity, eh? don’t you know? in the character — ” 

“ Our departed friend,” said Mr. Williamson, clearing his throat, 
“ had full possession of his faculties. I saw him the day before 
his seizure; his intellects were as clear— I am ready to give my 
testimony anywhere — as clear — as yours, sir, or mine.” 

It was not very distinctly indicated to whom this was addressed; 
the rector cast a slight glance at the speaker, as though he might 
have shrugged his shoulders; but he was too polite to do so. “ But, ’ ’ 
he went on, as though he had not been interrupted, “but this is 
too extraordinary; I scarcely knew Mr. Trevor; why he should 
make me one of the guardians of his daughter in such an important 
matter I can not understand; and associate me with ” — be paused 
again, and then gave another glance round — “ so many others — per- 
haps better qualified. ’ ’ 

“ If Dr. Beresford means me — ” Mr. Williamson began, with a 
flush on his face. 

‘ ‘ I mean no one in particular — I mean everybody — I mean that 
the whole idea is preposterous. Why,” said the rector, bursting 
into a little laugh, “ it is like an old play; it is like an invention in 
a romance; it is like — ” 

“ Oh-h!” said Mrs. Ford, drawing in her breath. She had not 
intended to speak in such fine company; but this was too much for 
her; and it had always been believed by those who knew her most 
intimately that she was still a Dissenter in her heart. “Oh-h!” 
she said, with a little shudder. “ When you consider that poor 
Mr. Trevor was carried out Of this house, feet foremost, this very 
day, and before the first night that folks should laugh—” 

The rector got very red. “ I beg your pardon,” he said, sharply, 
not with an apologetic voice. Mr. Williamson began once more to 
smooth his hat. There was in him a suppressed smile from the sole 
of his shoe to the top of his head, and the rector was aware of it, 
but could not take any notice, which discomposed that dignified 
clergyman more than if it had been a greater matter. 

Mrs. Stone here interfered; naturally her sympathies were all with 
the Church; but she liked, at the same time, to show her superior 
acquaintance with the testator’s wishes. “ If you will allow me, ” 
she said, ‘ ‘ I had the advantage of hearing from poor Mr. Trevor 
himself what he meant. He did not wish to deprive his dear daugh- 
ter of the advice of one who would be her spiritual instructor. He 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 125 

was — not a Churchman; hut he was a man of great judgment. He 
considered that the rector had a right to a voice in a matter so im- 
portant. But,” said Mrs. Stone suddenly, seeing Lady Randolph 
eager to interfere, “perhaps this is scarcely a moment to discuss 
the matter; and in the presence of—” 

“Not at all the moment,” said Lady Randolph, rising up and 
shaking out her flowing skirts. “These gentlemen must all be 
aware that Miss Trevor, in the meantime, is my first thought. Our 
presence is no longer necessary, I believe, my dear,” the great 
lady said, offering her arm to Lucy, who was thankful to be re- 
leased. All the men stood up, the rector still red, and Mr. William- 
son still smoothing his hat. The departure of the ladies had the air 
of a procession. Lucy was very timid and very sick at heart, long- 
ing to escape, to rest, to cry, and then to prepare herself quietly for 
whatever change might be coming; but she had no need of Lady 
Randolph’s arm. Even when the heart is breaking, a mourner may 
be quite able to walk; and Lucy was not heart-broken, only long- 
ing to cry a little, and give vent to her natural gentle sorrow for 
her poor old father. But Lady Randolph drew the girl’s hand 
within her arm, and held it there with her other hand, and whis- 
pered, “ Lean upon me, my poor child.” Lucy did not lean, feel- 
ing no need of support, but otherwise obeyed. Philip Rainy opened 
the door for the darkly clothed procession. He too thought it right 
to assert himself. “I should like to see you, Lucy,” he said, 
“ afterward, ” taking no notice of the great lady, “ about Jock.” 
The name, the suggestion, gave Lucy a shock of awakening. She 
stopped short, to Lady Randolph’s surprise and alarm, and turned 
round suddenly, withdrawing her hand from the soft constraint of 
that pressure upon it. They all paused, looking at her, almost in 
as great surprise as if something inanimate had detached itself from 
the wall and taken an independent step. 

“ Please, Mr. Rushton,” Lucy said timidly, but clearly, “ there 
is one thing I want to say. I will do everything — everything that 
papa wishes; but about Jock — ” 

“ About Jock?” they all came a little nearer, looking at her. 
Mrs. Stone put forth a hand to pat the girl’s shoulder soothingly, 
murmuring, “ Yes, dear — yes, my love, another time,” with amia- 
ble moderation. But Lady Randolph would not permit any inter- 
ference. She took her charge’s hand again. “ My dear,” she said, 

* * all these arrangements can be settled afterward by your friends. ” 
Lady Randolph had no idea what was meant by Jock. 

“But I must settle this first, ” Lucy said. She was very pale. 


126 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS 1 1ST ENGLAND. 


and very slight and girlish, looking like a shadow in her black 
clothes; but there was no mistaking her quiet determination. She 
stood quite still, making no fuss, with her eyes fixed upon the two 
lawyers. “ I will do everything,” she repeated, “only not about 
Jock.” ♦ 

“ That is what I am here for, Lucy,” said Philip Rainy. “ I am 
your nearest relative. It is I who ought to have the care of Jock.” 

At this point all turned their attention to Philip with sudden in- 
telligence in their faces, and some with alarm. The nearest rela- 
tive! Lucy, however, did nothing to confirm the position which 
Philip felt it expedient thus strongly, and at once, to assert. She 
looked at him with a faint smile, and shook her head. 

‘ ‘ He has nobody really belonging to him but me. Mr. Rushton, 
please, I will do everything else, but I can not give up Jock.” 

“ We’ll see about it; we’ll see about it, Lucy,” Mr. Rushton said. 
And then Lady Randolph, a little impatient, resumed her lead. “ I 
can not let you exert yourself so much,” she said, with peremptory 
tenderness. “ I must take you away; all this will be settled quite 
comfortably; but my first thought is for you. I must not let you 
overexert yourself. Lean upon me, my poor child?” 

And thus, at last, the black-robed procession filed away. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

GUARDIANS. 

The ladies went away, the men remained behind; most of them 
took their seats again with evident relief. However agreeable the 
two halves of humanity may be to each other in certain circum- 
stances, it is a relief to both to get rid of each other when there is 
business on hand. The mutual contempt they have for each 
- other's modes of acting impedes hearty co-operation, and the pres- 
ence of one interferes with the other’s freedom. The men took 
their seats and drew a long breath of relief, all but Philip, the un- 
authorized member of the party, who felt that with Lucy his only 
legal right to be here at all was gone. 

“Well,” said the rector, intensifying that sigh of relief into a 
kind of snort of satisfaction, “ now that we may speak freely. Rush- 
ton, you don’t expect that rubbish would bear the brunt of an En- 
glish court of law? It is all romancing; the old fellow must have 
been laughing at you in his sleeve. Seven trustees to decide whom 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 12 ? 

the girl is to marry! His mind must have been goue; and you can’t 
imagine for a moment that this is a thing which can be carried 
out.” 

“I don’t see why,” said Mr. Rushton calmly; ‘‘more absurd 
things have been earned out. He wants his girl to be looked after. 
She will have half the fortune-hunters in England after her, like 
flies after a honey-pot.” 

All the men assembled looked at the town clerk; he was the only 
one among them who could possibly have any interest in the ques- 
tion. The rector appreciated this fact with unusual force; he had 
daughters only, whereas Raymond Rushton was a likely young fel- 
low enough. They were all somewhat suspicious of each other, all 
except the personage who had read the documents, and took no part 
in the matter, and Mr. Chervil, a London attorney, with little time 
to spare, and not much interest in anything but the money, which 
was his trade. 

“ Of course there will be fortune-hunters after her. He ought,’” 
said the rector, who was given to laying down the law, “ to have 
appointed a couple of trustworthy guardians, as other people do, 
and left it in their hands. Such an arrangement as this, no one can 
help seeing, is positively absurd.” 

Here Ford cleared his throat expressively, with a sound which 
drew all eyes toward him. But the good man, having thus pro- 
tested inarticulately, was shy, and shrunk from speech. He re- 
treated a step or two with involuntary precipitation. And the only 
defender old Trevor found was in Mr. Williamson, who, neverthe- 
less, had no desire to pit himself against the rector: he would have 
liked, on the contrary, to be liberal and friendly, and to show him- 
self superior to all petty feeling; but he could not help taking a 
special interest in everything his clerical brother, who did not admit 
his brotherhood, did or said. Opposition or friendship, it might be 
either one or the other, but indifference could not be between them. 
Accordingly, as soon as the rector had said anything, Mr. William- 
son was instantly moved to say the reverse. 

“ We must not forget,” he said, putting down his hat on the floor, 
‘‘that our late lamented friend was carried out of this place only 
to-day. To call his arrangements absurd so soon is surely, if I may 
say so, not in good taste. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, as for good taste — ” cried the rector imperatively, with a 
sneer upon his lips; but he stopped himself in time. He would not 
get into any altercation, he said to himself; it was bad enough to be 
confronted with Dissenters, to have one of these fanatics actually 


128 THE GREATEST HEIRESS 1ST ENGLAND. 


sitting down with him at the same table, but to suffer himself to be 
led into a controversy! “ As for that,” he said, “ my mind is easy 
enough. But here is a very simple question — ” 

“ Shall you serve, Dr. Beresford, or do you decline it?” Mr. Rush- 
ton said. 

This was a question more simple still. The rector turned round 
and stared at the other with a confused and bewildered counte- 
nance. This was not at all what he meant. He paused for a mo- 
ment, and reflected before he made any answer: would he serve, or 
did he decline it? Very simple, but not so easy to answer: would he 
have a finger in the pie, or give it up altogether? would he accept 
the mysterious position, and keep the dear privilege of control, and 
the power of saying who was not to marry Lucy Trevor, though he 
cared little for Lucy Trevor, or would he show his sense of the 
folly of the arrangement by rejecting any share in it? It was, 
though so simple, a difficult question, much more difficult than to 
set down the old man, who was not a Churchman, as a fool. It did 
not please him, however, to accept the latter alternative; he was a 
man who dearly liked to have a finger in every pie. 

“ Oh, ah! indeed! yes, to be sure. That is how you put it,” he 
said. 

“Yes, that is the only way to put it,” said Mr. Rusliton; “ we 
can’t compel any one to accept the charge, but we have a few 
names behind with which to fill up, should any one object. My 
client was full of foresight,” he added, w T ith a smile; “ he was very 
long-headed, wrong-headed too, if you like, sometimes, but sharp 
as a needle. He thought his little girl a great prize. ’ ’ 

“And so she will be,” said the rector, almost with solemnity; 
and he was silent for a moment, as if in natural awe of Lucy’s 
greatness; but within himself he was mentality vowing that, if 
Rusliton tried to run his boy for such’ large stakes, he, the rector, 
would take care that he did not have it all his own way. Dr. Beres- 
ford, though he was an excellent clergyman, was not above the 
use of slang now and then, nor was he too good for a resolution 
which had a little of the vindictive in it. “ Must we be called to- 
gether to be consulted?” he said, with a laugh; “ there’s something 
of the kind in an old play. Will the candidate appear before us, 
and state his qualifications?” The rector again permitted himself 
to laugh, but nobody responded. Mr. Rusliton, though he con- 
demned the will in private, had sufficient professional feeling to de- 
cline to join in any open ridicule of it, and Ford, -who felt himself 
in the dignified attitude of a mourner, allowed nothing to disturb 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


129 


his seriousness. Mr. Williamson was smoothing his hat with dis- 
approving gravity, polishing it heavily round and round, as 
though he found some carnal tendency in it which had to be re- 
pressed. 

“ In my opinion, there is nothing to laugh at,” he said; “ it is a 
grave responsibility. The choice of a God-fearing Christian man to 
be the guide of the young lady, under Providence, and the trustee, 
as it were, of a great fortune — ” 

“ Oh, not so bad as that; we have not got to choose him, only to 
blackball him,” said Mr. Rushton; “ and if you think old Trevor 
intended that any husband should be the trustee of his daughter’s 
fortune, that is a mistake, I assure you. She has more power in her 
hands than ever a girl had; even now before she is of age she is 
allowed liberties — ah!” Mr. Rushton stopped short, for Philip 
Rainy had stepped forward with the evident intention of saying 
something. They all looked at Philip. He was well known to 
every one present — regarded favorably by the rector, as one who 
had seen the evil of his ways, and with a grudge by Mr. Williamson, 
as a deserter from the Nonconformist cause, and with careless 
friendliness by Mr. Rushton, as a man who was only a rising man, 
and to whom he was conscious of having himself given a helping 
hand. To Ford, Philip was a member of the family, who rather 
set himself above the family, and therefore was the object of cer- 
tain restrained grudges, but yet was a Rainy after all; thus the feel- 
ing of the company about him was mingled. Nevertheless, when 
they suddenly turned upon him, and recalled themselves to a recol- 
lection of his presence and his position, and all that was in his fa- 
vor, and the indications of nature, which pointed him out as so 
likely a candidate, they all instinctively forestalled the future, and 
on the spot blackballed Philip, who stood before them unconscious 
of his fate. 

“ I do not wish to intrude,” he said, “ though if any one has a 
right to know about my cousins I have. I am their nearest rela- 
tion. I am ” — and here he put on a certain dignity, though the 
Rainyswere not a noble race— “I believe, the head of the family 
since my father’s death. But what I want to say is this: if you, as 
his legal guardians, do not object, I should like to take charge of 
Jock.” 

“ Who is Jock?” said the rector, in an undertone. There was no 
one to answer but Mr. Williamson, who replied in the same tone, 
without looking at him. “ The little boy.” It was the first distinct 
communication that had passed between them. Dr. Beresford 
5 


130 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


looked at the Nonconformist with a humph of half-angry careless- 
ness and turned away; but yet he could not help it, he had dis- 
tinctly realized the presence of the minister of Bethesda, which was 
a great thorn in his side. On fonner occasions he had said, “I 
know nothing about that sort of people;” but that advantage was 
now taken from him. He had become acquainted with the man, 
though he was his natural enemy. 

“Take charge of Jock? with all my heart,” said the lawyer. 
“You could not do anything that would please me more; he has 
been one of our difficulties. Look here, Chervil, here is the very 
best thing that could happen. Mr. Rainy, a relation, a — a gentle- 
man in the scholastic profession;’ ’ here he stopped and made a little 
grimace. “ There will be a moderate allowance for him,” he con- 
tinued, with a laugh; “ all that is easy enough; but there’s his sis- 
ter to be taken into consideration, you know.” 

“ If I have your consent, I think I can manage Lucy,” said 
Philip, calmly. He spoke with great distinctness, and he meant 
them all to understand him. It w r as as if a thunder-bolt had been 
thrown in their midst: a young fellow like this, nobody in particu- 
lar, to call the heiress Lucy! Mr. Rushton called her so himself, 
and so did Ford, and the minister, but all at once such familiarity 
had come to sound profane. It was quite profane in young Rainy, 
a mere school-master, to speak so familiarly of that golden girl. 
They all drew back with a distinct shiver. As for the rector, he 
again ventured on a little laugh. 

“You are a bold fellow, Rainy,” he said, “ to talk of a young 
lady whom we all respect so much, by her Christian name.” 

“ I have known her all my life, doctor; we are cousins.” There 
was no idea of this great respect then. ‘ * I will speak to her at 
once.” 

The way in which the matrimonial committee drew in their breath 
made a distinct sound in the room. Speak to her, good heavens! a 
school-master— a nobody! “You will remember,” said Ford, with 
solemnity, “ that this is the day of her father’s funeral. To speak 
to her — about any such matters — ’ ’ 

“What matters?” Philip knew very well what they meant; but 
he liked to play upon their apprehensions. “You may be sure,” 
he said, with malicious gravity, “ I shall say nothing to distress 
her. She knows me, and I think she has confidence in me.” 

“ And you forget,” said Mr, Chervil, who was cool, and had his 
wits about him, “ that it’s only about little Jock.” 

“To be sure, to be sure, it is not about anything very impor- 


THE GKEATEST HEIKESS IN ENGLAND. 


131 


tant,” said the committee, in full accord, “ iPs only about little 
Jock.” 

And then they all laughed, but not with a very good grace. 
There was no fault at all to be found with him, an honest, honor- 
able, rising young man — and the girl had no right to anything bet- 
ter; but what was the use of appointing a committee of seven to 
watch over this momentous event, if Lucy’s fortune was to fall like 
a ripe apple from the tree into the mouth of Mr. Philip Rainy? The 
rector, who had thought the stipulations so absurd, and had asked, 
almost with indignation, whether any one could ever hope to carry 
them out, even he looked with indignation at Philip. It was like 
cutting the ground from under their feet, settling the whole business 
before it had even begun. It was a thing not to be tolerated at all. 
There was not a word more said by anybody about the unnecessari- 
ness of Mr. Trevor’s precautions after this specimen, as they all felt 
it, of the dangers to be gone through. 

While this was going on upstairs, Lady Randolph led Lucy into 
Mrs. Ford’s sitting-room, “ as if it had been her own,” that excel- 
lent woman said, though she was very willing, on the whole, that 
her parlor should be made use of, and indeed, for long after took 
special care of the chair upon which Lady Randolph had sat down. 
Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Stone followed. There was a pause after they 
had all seated themselves, for these two other personages were some- 
what jealous in their eagerness to hear every syllable that fell from 
Lady Randolph’s lips, and Lady Randolph studiously ignored 
them. It was she who for the moment was mistress of the situa- 
tion; she put Lucy tenderly upon the sofa, and drew a chair close 
to it. 

“You are doing too much,” she said; “ after all the excitement 
and grief you want rest, or we shall have you ill on our hands.” 

“That is what I am always telling her, my lady,” said Mrs. 
Ford. 

Mrs. Stone smiled. “Lucy will not get ill,” she said, “her 
strength is intact; I don’t think Lady Randolph need have any fear 
on that account.” 

But Mrs. Stone’s interference was not relished by any one. Lady 
Randolph glanced slightly at her but took no notice; while Mrs. 
Ford was somewhat irritated that Lucy should be thought robust 
and able to bear a great sorrow without suffering. They were all 
very anxious to persuade the girl to “ put up her feet,” and take 
care of herself. 

“ A change, an entire change is what you want,” Lady Randolph 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EHGLAND. 


m 

said, “and indeed I think that is what we must do. It does not 
matter if you are not prepared; of course you will want a great 
many things, but they can be got better in London than anywhere 
else. I should like you to come with me at once.” 

Lucy, who had been half reclining on the sofa cushions to please 
her new friend, here raised herself with an energy which was not 
at all in keeping with her supposed exhaustion. “ At once!” she said 
with alarm, not perceiving at the moment that this was not compli- 
mentary to Lady Randolph. When she perceived it, Lucy’s polite- 
ness was put to a severe test. She hada little awe of her future guard- 
ian, and she was very dutiful, more disposed by nature to do what 
she was told than to rebel. She added faintly a gentle remonstrance. 
‘‘ I thought there would have been a little time to get ready; the 
dress-maker has only sent a few of the things; and then,” she said, 
as if the argument was final, “ we have had no time at all to get 
Jock’s things in order. I would have to wait for Jock.” 

“ Jock!” said Lady Randolph, with the greatest surprise. 

And then there was another pause. “I told you, Lucy,” said 
Mrs. Ford, “ that her ladyship knew nothing about Jock, that she 
would never hear of taking a little boy into her house. A young 
lady is one thing, ‘but a little boy — a little boy is quite different; I 
tcld you her ladyship would never hear of it.” In the satisfaction 
of having known it all the tithe, Mrs. Ford almost forgot the incon- 
veniences or the position. Lucy sat bolt upright upon her sofa, dis- 
regarding all the fictions about necessary rest, and looked round 
upon them with a little spark in each of her blue eyes. 

“My love,” says Mrs. Stone in a low tone, “you have always 
intended and wished to send Jock to school; you must not forget 
that—” 

There was nothing hostile to the new reign in these two women, 
at least not in this respect. Their deprecation and soothing were 
quite sincere. But Lady Randolph was a woman who had all her 
wits about her. She watched every indication of the thorny new 
ground which she was treading with a watchful eye; and she saw 
that Lucy’s expression changed from that of quiet gravity and sad- 
ness into an energy which was almost impassioned. The girl’s 
hands caught at each other, her lips quivered, every feature moved. 

“He is all I have,” Lucy cried out suddenly, “everything I 
have! and he is such a little, little fellow. Oh, don’t mind petting 
me— what do I care for dresses or things? but I want Jock; oh, let 
me have Jock!” 

“Hush, hush, Lucy; hush, dear,” whispered Mrs. Stone, with 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


133 


sympathetic looks, and Mrs. Ford put her handkerchief to her eyes 
and vowed, sobbing, that she would take every care of him. They 
were both half frightened by the sudden vehemence which was un- 
like Lucy. And at this moment there was a knock at the door, and 
Philip Rainy put in his head. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, “ but may I speak to Lucy for a 
moment? I thought you would like to know that they have no ob- 
jections, Lucy — not the least objection. I am to have Jock. I told 
Mr. RushtQn that I felt sure you would trust him to me.” 

Lucy felt that she had no longer any power of speech. She put 
her hands together instinctively, and gave Lady Randolph a piteous 
look; her heart swelled as if it would burst. Was it a judgment 
upon her for not being heart-broken, as perhaps she ought to have 
been, for the loss of her father? To have little Jock taken away 
from her was like tearing a piece of herself away. 

But Lady Randolph had all her wits about her. It was not 
likely, if the sight of this comely young man who called the heiress 
Lucy, had alarmed even the men upstairs, that a woman would be 
less alive to the danger. She took Lucy’s hand into her own, and 
pressed them kindly between hers. 

” I don’t know this gentleman, my dear,” she said, “ and I don’t 
doubt he is very kind; but I am sure it would be mistaken kindness 
to separate these two poor children now. Just after one great loss, 
she is not in a fit state to bear another wrench. No. I don’t know 
who Jock is, and I have not much room in my little house; but you 
shall have your Jock, my dear. I will not be the one to take him 
from you,” Lady Randolph said. 

This was a thing which no one had so much as thought of. They 
all gazed at her with wonder and admiration, while Lucy, in the 
sudden relief, fell a-crying, more subdued and broken down than 
she had yet shown herself. While the girl was being caressed and 
soothed, Mrs. Stone went away, finding no room for her own minis- 
trations. She said, “ That is a very clever woman, ” to Philip Rainy 
at the door. 


CHAPTER XVm. 

THE NEW LIFE. 

Lady Randolph made haste to strike while the iron was hot. 
She was a clever woman, conscious enough (though, perhaps, no 
more than other people) of her own interests, and with schemes in 
her mind (as everybody had) of other interests to be served through 


134 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


the heiress, whom it had been one of the successes of her later life 
to obtain the charge of; but, having got this, she had no other in- 
tention than to treat Lucy kindly, and to make her life, which 
would add so many comforts to Lady Randolph’s, pleasant and 
happy to herself. The best way to do this was to win the girl’s 
heart. Lady Randolph had not been seized with love at first sight 
for her new charge; but she was rather prepossessed than otherwise 
by Lucy’s appearance, and she was anxious to get hold of her and 
secure her affections with as little delay as possible; and. when she 
informed Mrs. Ford, as she sipped the cup of tea which that excel- 
lent woman prepared for her, that she was going to pass the night 
at the Hall, and that to return to that scene of her happier life was 
always “ a trial ” to her, she had already touched a chord of sym- 
pathy in Lucy’s heart. 

“ What I should like,” Lady Randolph said, “ would be that you 
should come with me, my dear. It would be a great matter for me. 
The Hall belongs to Sir Thomas now, my nephew, you know. He 
is very kind to me, and I look upon him almost as a son, and his 
house is always open to me; but when you remember that I was 
once mistress there, and spent a happy life in it, and that now I am 
all alone, meeting ghosts in every room — ” 

Lucy’s heart came to her eyes. It was all true that Lady Ran- 
dolph said, but perhaps no such statement, made for the purpose of 
calling forth sympathy, ever achieves its end without leaving a 
certain sense of half -aroused shame in the mind of the successful 
schemer. Lady Randolph was touched by the warmth of feeling in 
the girl’s eyes, and she was half ashamed of herself for the conscious 
exaggeration which had called it forth. Mrs. Ford was very sym- 
pathetic. 

“ l have never been so bad as that,” she said, “ I have always 
had company; I have never lost an ’usband, like you, my lady; but 
I feel for your ladyship all the same.” 

“ And I shrink from going back,” said Lady Randolph, “ and 
going all alone. I think if Lucy could come with me, it would be 
a great thing for me; and we should have time to make acquaint- 
ance with each other; and Mrs. Ford, lam sure, would look after all 
the things, and bring them and the little brother to meet us at the 
station to-morrow. Will you begin our life together by being kind 
to me, Lucy?” she said, with a smile. 

There were difficulties, great difficulties, to be apprehended from 
Jock; but Lucy could not refuse such an appeal; and this was 
how it happened, that, to the great surprise of Farafield, she was 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 135 


seen in her little crape bonnet and veil (much too old for her, Lady 
Randolph at once decided) driving in the gray of the wintery after- 
noon, through the chilly streets — the day her father was buried! 
there were some people who thought it very unfeeling. When it 
was mentioned at dinner in the big house in the market-place in- 
habited by the town clerk, Mrs. Rushton was very much scandal- 
ized. 

“ The very day of the funeral!” she cried; “ they might have let 
her keep quiet one day; for I don’t blame the girl — how was she to 
know any better? I always said it was a fatal thing for Lucy when 
that old fool of a father chose a fashionable fine old lady for her 
guardian. Oh, don’t speak to me, I have no patience with him. 
I think, from beginning to end, there never was such a ridiculous 
will. If it had been me, I should have taken it into court; I should 
have had it broke—” 

“You might have found it difficult to do that. How would you 
have had it broke, I should like to know?” her husband said. 

“Ladies’ law,” said Mr. Chevril, who was very busy with his 
dinner, and did not care to waste words. 

“ It is not my trade,” said Mrs. Rushton, “ that’s your business. 
I can tell you I should have done it had it been in my hands. But 
it’s not in my hands; a woman never has a chance. You may talk 
of ladies’ law, but this I know, that if we had the law to make it 
would not be so silly. A woman would have known what was for 
the girl’s true advantage; we would have said to old Mr. Trevor, 
Don’t be such an old fool. We should have told him boldly, such 
and such a thing is not for your girl’s advantage. Had any of you 
men the courage to do that? And the result is, Lucy is in the hands 
of a fashionable lady who can’t live without excitement, and takes 
her out to drive on the day of her father’s funeral. I never heard 
anything like it, for my part.” 

This indignation, however, was scarcely called for by the facts of 
the case; and yet the event was very important for Lucy. There 
was not much excitement, from Mrs. Rushton ’s point of view, in 
the afternoon drive along the wintery roads to the Hall, which was 
nearly five miles out of Farafield. The days were still short, and 
the February afternoon was rainy and gloomy, and the latter part 
of the way was between two lines of bare and dusky hedge-rows, 
with here and there a spectral tree waving darkly against the un- 
seen sky; not a cheerful moment, nor was the landscape cheerful; 
an expanse of damp and darkening fields, long lines of vague road. 


136 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAHIr. 


no light anywhere, save the glimpses of reflection in wet ditches or 
pools of muddy water. Lady Randolph shivered, wrapping herself 
close in her furs; but for Lucy all was full of intense sensation and 
consciousness, which might be called excitement, though its effect 
upon her was to make her quieter and more outwardly serious than 
usual. From the moment when she stepped into the carriage, Lucy 
felt herself in a new world. The life she had been used to lead 
wanted no comforts, so far as she was aware, but the rooms at the 
Terrace had possessed no charm, and the best vehicle with which 
Lucy was acquainted was the shabby fly of the neighborhood, 
which lived at the livery-stables round the comer, and served all 
the inhabitants of the Terrace for all their expeditions. Lucy felt 
the difference when she suddenly found herself in the soft atmos- 
phere of luxury which surrounded her for the first time in Lady 
Randolph’s carriage, a little sphere by itself, a little moving world 
of wealth and refinement, where the very air was different from the 
muggy air of the commonplace world; and as they drove up the 
fine avenue, with all its tall trees rustling and waving against the 
faint gray ness of the sky, and saw the great outline of the* Hall 
dimly indicated by irregular specks of light, Lucy felt as if she were 
in a dream, but a dream that was more real than any waking cer- 
tainty. She followed Lady Randolph into the great hall and up the 
wide spacious staircase, with these mingled sensations growing more 
and more strongly upon her. It was a dream: the noiseless servants, 
the luxurious carpets in which her foot sunk, the great pictures, the 
space and largeness everywhere, no single feature of the place es- 
caped her observation. It was a dream, yet it was more real than 
all the circumstances of the past existence, which now had become 
dreams and shadows, things which were over. She stepped not into 
a strange house only, but into a new life, when she crossed the 
threshold. This was the life her father had always told her of; he 
had told her it would begin when he died, and had prepared her to 
take her place in it, always holding before her an ideal sketch of the 
position which was to be hers; and now it had come. The very fact 
that her entrance into this new world was made on his funeral day 
gave to the new life that aspect of springing out of the old which 
he had always impressed upon her. She had lost no time, not a day, 
and transition was natural, in being so sudden and so strange. 

The Hall was a beautiful old house, stately in all its details, huge, 
and ample, and lofty. To go into it was like walking into a pict- 
ure. There was a great mirror in the hall, which reflected her slim 
figure in its new crape and blackness stepping dubiously forward, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


137 


making her think for a moment that it was some one else she saw, 
a girl with a pale face, strange to everything, who did not know 
which way to turn. Lady Randolph took her upstairs to a dim 
room, pervaded by ruddy firelight, and with glimmering candles 
lighted here and there. “ You shall have this little room to-night, 
for it is near mine,” Lady Randolph said. Lucy thought it was not 
a little but a large room, bigger than any bedroom in the Terrace, 
and more comfortable than anything she had ever dreamed of. 
The badly built draughty rooms in the Terrace were not half so 
warm as this soft, silken-cushioned nook. Lucy lay down doubt- 
fully on the sofa as her new friend ordained, but her mind was far 
too active and her imagination too hazy to permit her perfect rest. 
Lady Randolph’s maid, a soft- voiced, noiseless person, came to her 
and brought her tea, opening the little bag she had brought, and ar- 
ranging everything she wanted, as Lucy’s wants had never been 
provided for before. All this had a bewildering, yet an awakening 
effect upon her. She lay for a little while upon the sofa warm and 
still, and cried a little, which relieved the incipient headache over 
her heavy eyes. Poor papa! he was gone as he had always planned 
and intended, and had left her to begin this new life, which he had 
drawn out and mapped before her feet. And how many things he 
had left her to do, things which it overawed her to think of! A 
flutter of anxiety woke in her heart, even now, as she wondered how 
she should ever be capable of doing them by herself without guid- 
ance, so ignorant as she was and inexperienced. But yet she would 
do them. She would obey everything, she would follow all his in- 
structions, Lucy vowed to herself with a thrill of resolution, £nd a 
dropping of tears, which relieved and at the same time exhausted 
her. But the exhaustion was a kind of refreshment. And after 
awhile Lady Randolph came back, after Lucy had bathed her eyes 
and smoothed back her fair hair, and took her down-stairs. 

“ I am glad Tom is away,” Lady Randolph said, “ we will have 
it all to ourselves. To-mc rrow I will show you the house, and to- 
night we shall have a little quiet chat, and make friends.” 

She gave Lucy’s hand a little pressure with her arm, and led her 
out of one softly lighted room into another, from the drawing- 
room, to the dining-room, where they sat down, in the midst of the 
surrounding dimness, at a shining table, all white and bright, with 
flowers upon it, unknown at this season in the Terrace. Lucy felt a 
thrill of awe when the family butler, most respectable of function- 
aries, put her chair close to the table as she sat down. Once more 
she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror which reflected her from 


i38 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

head to foot, and wondered who it could be sitting there gazing at 
her with that little pale familiar face. 

After the meal was over they went back to a little inner drawing- 
room, to reach which they had to go through a whole suite of half- 
lighted, luxurious rooms, all softly warm with firelight. “ This used 
to be my favorite room/’ Lady Randolph said, sighing as she 
looked round. It was called the little drawing-room, and Lady 
Randolph spoke of it as a little nook; but it was bigger than the 
drawing-room at the Terrace. Here the girl was set down in a com- 
tortable chair by the fire, and listened while Lady Randolph told of 
her former life here, and all she had done. “ Tom is very kind,” 
she said; “ but how can I come here without meeting ghosts, the 
ghosts of all my happy days?” 

Lucy listened with that devout attention which only youth so in- 
nocent and natural as hers can give to the recollections of one who 
has “gone through” these scenes of actual life which are all 
mystery and wonder to itself. Lucy had no ghosts in her 
memory; her father was not far enough off from her, nor was 
her sense of loss so strong as to make her feel that the w r orld was 
henceforward peopled with sad recollection; but there was enough 
enlightenment in the touch of natural grief to make her understand. 
She was glad to be allowed to listen quietly — to feel the ache in her 
heart softened and subdued, and the lull of great exhaustion falling 
over her. That ache of natural, not excessive sorrow, is almost an 
additional luxury in such a case. It justifies the languor, and gives 
an ennobling reason for it. And in a mind so young the very exist- 
ence of sorrow, the first touches of experience, the sense of really 
experiencing in its own person those emotions which it has heard of 
all its life, which are the inspiration of all tragedies, and the theme 
of all stories, carry with them an exquisite consciousness, which is 
near enjoyment, though it is pain. Lucy was perhaps in her own 
constitution too simply matter-of-fact to feel all this, yet she did 
feel it vaguely. She was no longer a school-girl, insignificant and 
happy, but a pale young woman in deep mourning who had taken 
a first step into the experiences of life. She leaned back in her 
chair with that ache in her heart which she was almost proud of, 
yet with a sense of luxurious well-being round her, warmth, soft- 
ness, kindness, and her hand in Lady Randolph’s hand. Her shy- 
ness had melted away under the kind looks of her new friend; Lucy 
was too composed to be very shy by nature, but even the silence 
was not embarrassing to her, which is the greatest test of all. 

It was easy after that to go on to talk of herself a little. Lady 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


139 


Randolph had become honestly interested in her young companion; 
Lucy was in every way so much better than she had expected. 
Even the hand which she had taken into her own was, now she had 
time to think of it, an agreeable surprise. Lucy's hand was small 
and soft, and as prettily shaped as if she had been born a princess. 
These indications of race, which are so infallible in romance, do not 
always hold in actual life. The old school-master’s daughter had 
no beauty to speak of; but her hand was as delicate as if the bluest 
blood in the world ran in her veins. Lady Randolph felt that 
Providence had been very good to her in this respect, for, indeed, 
she could not but feel that a large red coarse hand was what might 
have been expected in the little parvenue. But Lucy was not coarse 
in any particular; she would never come to the pitch of refinement 
which that princess reached who felt a pea through fifteen mat- 
tresses; but her quiet straightforwardness could never be vulgar. 
This certainty relieved her future chaperon from her worst fears. 

“My house is not like this,” Lady Randolph said; “London 
houses are small; but I try to make it comfortable. I have partly 
arranged your rooms for you; but I have left you all the finishing 
touches. It will amuse you 10 settle your pretty things about you 
yourself.” 

“I have not any pretty things,” said Lucy; “I have nothing 
but — ” Jock, she was going to say; but she was not sure of the 
prudence of the speech, seeing Jock was her grand difficulty in life. 

“Never mind,” said Lady Randolph, “nothing can be easier 
than to get them; and you must have a maid — unless indeed there 
is one that you would like to bring with you. I should prefer a 
new one, a stranger who would not make any comparisons, who 
would easily fall into the ways of my house.” 

“ I have no one,” said Lucy, eagerly; “ I have never been ac- 
customed to anything of the kind. I never had a maid in my life. ” 

“ Well, my dear, it has not been a very long life. We must find 
you a nice maid. Of course you will not go out this year; but there 
will be plenty of things to interest you. Are you very fond of 
music? or anything else? You must tell me what you like best.” 

‘ 4 1 can play — a little, Lady Randolph, not anjdhing to speak of, ’ 
said Lucy, with the instinct of a school-girl. She did not even 
think of music in any higher sense. 

“Then that is not your speciality ; have you a speciality, Lucy? 
Perhaps it is art?” 

“ I can draw — a very little. Lady Randolph.” 

Lucy’s questioner laughed. “Then 1 am in hopes,” she said, 


140 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 

“great hopes, that you are a real, honest, natural, ignorant girl, 
like what we used to be. Don't say you are scientific, Lucy; 1 
could not understand that. ” 

“I am very sorry,” said Lucy, with confusion; “Mrs. Stone 
gave me every advantage, but I never was quick at learning. I am 
not even a great reader. Lady Randolph; I don’t know what you 
will think of me.” 

“ If that is all, Lucy, I think I can put up even with that.” 

“ But Jock is!” cried Lucy, seizing the opportunity with sudden 
temerity. “You would not believe what he has read — every kind 
of history and poetry, though he is so little. And he has never had 
any advantages. Papa always thought me the most important, be- 
cause of my money; but now, ’ said Lucy, with a little excitement, 
“ now! It is the only thing in which I will ever go against him — I 
told him so always; so I hope it is not wicked to do it now; what I 
want most is to make something of Jock.” 

Now Lady Randolph was not interested in Jock. Her warmth of 
sympathy was a little chilled by this outburst, and the chill reacted 
upon her companion. “We shall have plenty of time to talk of 
this,” Lady Randolph said; “ it is getting late; and you have had a 
very exhausting day. I think the first thing to be done is to have 
a good night’s rest.” 

Next day there was a great gathering at Farafield station, when 
the carriage from the Hall drove up with Lady Randolph and her 
charge. The Fords had arrived, bringing Jock, a pallid little figure 
all black, in unimaginable depths of mourning, and with a most 
anxious little countenance; for Jock had spent a miserable night— 
not crying, as is the case generally with children, but framing a 
hundred terrors in his imagination, and half believing that Lucy 
had been spirited away, and would come back for him no more. 
The convulsive clutch which he made at her hand, and the sudden 
relaxation of all the lines of his eager little face as he recovered his 
sheet-anchor, his sole support and companion, went to Lucy’s heart. 
She was almost as giad to see him It was natural to feel him 
hanging upon her, trotting in her very footsteps, not letting her go 
tor a moment. Philip Rainy was also there to bid his cousin good- 
bye; and in the sight of everybody he took her by the arm and led 
her apart, and had a few minutes’ earnest conversation with Lucy. 
This talk was almost exclusively about Jock, but it was looked 
upon with great surprise and jealousy by several pairs of eyes. For 
Mrs Stone had also come to the station to bid her pupil farewell, 
and she was accompanied by her nephew, Mr. St. Clair, who stood 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAND. 


141 


looking his handsomest, and holding his head high over the group 
in the pleasant consciousness of being much the tallest and most im- 
posing personage among them. There was also a group of school- 
girls, under the charge of mademoiselle, all ready to bestow kisses 
and good- wishes, and a few easy tears upon Lucy. And Mr. Rush- 
ton had come to see his ward off, with his wife and their son Ray- 
mond in attendance. All the elder people looked on Philip Rainy 
with suspicion; but all the more did he hold Lucy by the sleeve* 
talking to her, and keeping the rest of her friends waiting. When 
she did get to the carriage at last it was through a tumult of leave- 
takings, which made the very guards and porters tearful. Mrs. 
Ford stood crying, saying, “ God bless you!” at intervals; and Mis. 
Stone folded her pupil in a close embrace. ' ‘ Remember, Lucy, 
that you are coming back in six months, according to your good 
father’s will; and I hope you will not have forgotten your old 
friends,” she said, with a mixture of affection and authority. Mr. 
St. Clair stood with his hat off, smiling and bowing. “ May I say 
good-bye, too? And good luck!” he said, enveloping Lucy’s black 
glove in his large soft white hand. He was the tallest and the big- 
gest there, and that always makes an. impression upon a girl’s im- 
agination. Then the Ruslitons came forward and took her into 
their group. “ I felt that I must come to give you my very best 
wishes,” Mrs. Rushton said; “ and here is Raymond, your old play- 
fellow, who hopes you remember him, Lucy. He only came home 
last night, but he would come to see you off.” Then the girls all 
rushed at their comrade, whom they all envied, though some of 
them were sorry for her. “ You will be sure to write,” they cried, 
with one voice and a succession of hugs. “ And, oh, Lucy!” cried 
Katie Russell, “ please go and see mamma!” It was with difficulty 
that she was helped into the carriage after all these encounters, a 
little disheveled; smiling and crying, and with Jock all hidden and 
wound up in her skirts. But the person who extricated her and 
put her into the carriage was Philip, who held steadily to his superior 
rights. He was the last to touch her hand, and he said, “ Remem- 
ber!” as the train began to move, as solemnly as did the solemn king 
on the scaffold. This cost Philip more than one dinner-party, and 
may almost be said to have damaged his prospects at Farafield. 
“ Did you ever see such presumption,” Mrs. Rushton said, “ push- 
ing in before you, her guardian?” And he was not asked to the 
Rushtons for a long time after, not till they were in absolute despair 
for a stray man to fill a corner. It was like the dispersion of a con- 
gregation from some special service to see all the people streaming 


142 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

away. And Lucy was the subject of a hundred fears and doubts. 
They shook their heads over her, all but the school-girls, who 
thought it would be too delightful to be Lucy. It was thus that 
Lucy set out upon the world. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LADY RANDOLPH’S MOTIVE. 

The past seemed entirely swept away and obliterated from Lucy 
when she found herself in Lady Randolph’s London house, inhabit- 
ing two rooms charmingly and daintily furnished, with a deft and 
respectful maid belonging to herself, at her special call, and every- 
thing that it was desirable a young lady of fortune should have. 
The allowance made for her was very large, so her father had 
willed, and her new guardian employed it liberally. Needless to 
say that Lady Randolph was not herself rich; but she was not 
greedy or grasping. She liked dearly the large additional income 
she had to spend, but she had no wish to make economies from it at 
Lucy’s cost. Economies, indeed, were not in Lady Randolph’s 
way. She liked a large liberal house. She liked the sense of a full 
purse into which she could put her hand without fear of the supply 
failing (who does not?). She liked the power of moving about as 
she pleased, of tilling her house with visitors, and making herself 
the cheerful beneficent center of a society not badly chosen. She 
was willing to give her charge ‘ ‘ every advantage, ’ ’ and to spend the 
large income she brought with her entirely upon the life which they 
were to lead together. Old Trevor was shrewd, he knew what he 
was doing, and his choice carried out his intention fully. Lady 
Randolph was pleased to have a great heiress to bring out, and she 
was anxious to bring her out in the very best way. Her object on 
her own side was, no doubt, selfish, in so far that to live liberally 
was pleasant to her, and to spend largely a kind of necessity of her 
nature. But all this largeness and liberality, which were so pleasant 
to herself, were exactly what was wanted, according to her father’s 
plan, for Lucy, to whom Lady Randolph communicated the advant- 
ages procured by her money with all the lavish provision for her 
pleasure which a doting mother might have made. In all this there 
was a fine high-spirited honorableness about Lucy’s new guardian. 
She scorned to save a penny of the allowance. And we are bound 
to add that this course of procedure did not approve itself (what 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKT). 


143 


course ever does?) to Lady Randolph’s friends. While Lucy was 
being established in those luxurious yet simple rooms, which were 
good enough for a princess, yet so little fine, that Lucy’s simplicity 
had not yet found out how delicate and costly they were, Lady 
Randolph’s small coterie of advisers were censuring her warmly 
down-stairs. 

“ You ought to lay by half of it,” old Lady Betsinda Molyneux 
was saying at the very moment when Lucy, with tranquil pleasure 
aided by Jock, in a state of half -resentful, half-happy excitement, 
was putting a set of pretty books into the low book-shelves thai 
lined her little sitting-room; “ you ought to lay by one half of it 
Good life! a girl like that to get the advantage of being in your 
house at all! Instead of petting her, and getting her everything 
that you can think of, she ought to be too thankful if you put her 
in the housemaid’s closet. If you don’t show a little wisdom now 
I will despair of you, my dear,” the old lady said. She was an old 
lady of the first fashion; but she was, all the same, a very grimy old 
lady with a mustache, and a complexion which suggested coal dust 
rather than poudre de riz. Her clothes would have been, worth a 
great deal to an antiquary, notwithstanding that they were all 
shaped, more or less, in accordance with the fashion; but they gave 
Lady Betsinda the air of an animated rag bag; and she wore a pro- 
fusion of lace, clouds of black upon her mantle, and ruffles of white 
about her thin and dingy neck; but it would have been a misnomer, 
and also an insult, to* call that lace white. It was frankly dirty, 
and toned to an indescribable color by years and wear. She was 
worth a small fortune where she stood with all her old trumpery 
upon her; and yet a clean old woman in a white cap and apron 
would have been a much fairer spectacle. Her rings flashed as she 
moved her quick bony wrinkled hands, which were of a color as 
indescribable as her lace. It would have been hard to have seen 
any signs of noble race in Lady Betsinda' s hands; and yet the queer 
old figure hung round with festoons of lace, and clothed in old black 
satin as thick as a modern party- wall, could not have been anything 
but that of a woman of rank. Her garments smelled not ot myrrh 
and frankincense, but of camphor, in which they were always put 
away to preserve them; and the number of times these garments 
had been through the hands of Lady Betsinda’s patient maid, and 
the number of stitches that were required to keep them always in 
order, was more than anybody, except the hard-worked official who 
had charge of the old lady’s wardrobe, could say. 

“I think so, too,” said a small and delicate person who was 


144 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


seated in a deep low chair upon the other side of Ihe fire. She was 
not old like Lady Betsinda. She was a fragile little pale woman 
approaching fifty, the wife of an eminent lawyer, and a little leader 
of society in her way. She wrote a little, and drew a little, and 
sung a little, and was a great patroness of artists, to whom, it need 
not be said, Mrs. Berry-Montagu was very superior, gracious to 
them as a queen to her courtiers; while young painters, and young 
writers, and young actors were very obsequious to her, as to a wom- 
an who could, their elders told them, “ make their fortunes.” And 
there was more truth than usual in this, for though Mrs. Berry-Mon- 
tagu could not make anybody’s fortune she could do something to 
mar it, and very frequently exercised that less amiable power, 
writing pretty little critiques which made the young people wince, 
and damning their best efforts with elegant depreciation. These 
were two of the friends who took Lady Randolph’s moral character 
and social actions under their control. Most women, especially 
those who are widojvs, have a superintending tribunal of this de- 
scription, before which all their actions are judged; and nowhere 
does the true dignity of the woman who is married come out with 
more imposing force than in such circumstances. Lady Betsinda 
was vehement; she was old and the daughter of a duke, and had a 
very good right to say what she pleased, and keep the rest of the 
world in order. But Mrs. Berry-Montagu was, so to speak, two 
people. Her views were enlarged, as everybody acknowledged 
tacitly by her possession of that larger shadow of a husband behind 
her, and she had a great, unexpressed contempt for all women who 
were without that dual dignity. A smile of the softest disdain — 
nay, the word is too strong, and so is derision also much too potent 
for the delicate subdued amusement with which she contemplated 
the doings of the femme sole of all classes — hovered about her lips. 
This did not spring from any special devotion on her part to her 
husband, or faith in him, but only from her consciousness of her 
own good fortune and dignity, and the high position she occupied 
in consequence of his existence. We have given too much space to 
the description of Lady Randolph’s privy council. Has not every 
solitary woman in society a governing body which is much the 
same? 

“ I think so, too,” Mrs. Berry-Montagu said; ‘ you ought really 
to think of yourself a little; self-i enunciation is a beautiful virtue; 
but then we are not called upon to exercise it for everybody, and a 
girl of this description is fair game.” 

“ If I were a hunter,” said Lady Randolph. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


145 


Oh, my dear, don't tel! me, you are all hunters, - ’ said the little 
lady in serene superiority. *' What do you take her for? You are 
not one of the silly women that want a girl to take about with them ; 
to be an excuse for going to parties therefore you must have an 
object Now. of course, we don’t want to know, till you tell us, 
what the object is; but in the meantime you ought, it is your duty, 
to derive a little advantage on your side from what is so great an 
advantage on hers.'’ 

“ That's speaking like a book,” said Lady Betsinda, “ but I like 
to be plain for my part: you ought to lay by half, my dear. You 
want to go to Homburg when the season’s over, that stands to 
reason; and when you come back you’ve got dozens of visits to pay 
— the most expensive thing in the world; and, after all, this won’t 
hist forever, there will come a time when she will marry or set up 
for herself : that’s quite common nowadays girls do it, and nobody 
thinks any harm ” 

“ Oh, she will marry,” said Mrs Berry Montagu, with a signifi- 
cant smile 

“ Most likely she’ll marry; but not so sure as it once was,” said 
Lady Betsinda, nodding her old head; “women’s ways have 
changed; I don’t say if it is better 01 worse, but they have changed; 
and anyhow it is your duty to look after yourself. Now, don’t you 
think il her duty to look after herself? Disinterestedness and so 
forth, are all very fine. We know you’re unselfish, my dear ” 

“ Every woman is unselfish, it is the appropriate adjective,” said 
Mrs. Berry -Montagu; * but you must recollect that you have no 
one to look after your interests, and that, however it goes against 
you, you must take yourself into consideration ” 

“ Oh, this is all much too fine for me!” cried the culprit on her 
trial “ Rather congratulate me on having been so lucky. I might 
have found myself with a vulgar hoyden, or a little silly parvenue 
on my hands; and here is a quiet little well-bred person, as com- 
posed, and with as much good sense — I am afraid with more good 
sense than I have myself. ” 

"Yes, she will make her own out of you You are just a little 
simpleton, Mary Randolph, though you’re twice as big and half as 
old as me. She’ll turn you round her little finger. Isn’t your 
whole house turned upside down for hei and her belongings? Why, 
there was a child about— a big pair of eyes, not much more— you 
are taking him pardessus le mar chef She is capable of it,” cried the 
old lady, shaking a cloud of camphor out of her old satin skirts in 
impatience, and appealing to her colleague. Mrs. Berry-Montagu 


146 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN- ENGLAND. 


put some eau-de Cologne on lier handkerchief and applied it tender- 
ly to her nose. 

You continue to use patchouly. I hoped it had gone completely 
out of fashion,” she said. 

“ It isn’t patchouly I have my things carefully looked after; 
that’s why they last so well. I have little bags of camphor in all 
my dresses. It is good for everything. Many people think it is 
only moths that camphor is useful for, but it is good for everything, 
and a very wholesome scent. I hate perfumes myself.” 

‘ Who is the little boy?” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, with a 
languid smile. 

“ Ah, that is the sore point,” said Lady Randolph. “ There is a 
little brother ” 

This was echoed by both the ladies in different tones of amaze 
ment. 

‘ Then how is it that she has the money?” Lady Betsinda asked 

*' It came from Lucy’s mother, the boy had nothing to do with 
it he has not a penny Poor child t I can see Lucy is disturbed 
about him. He has three thousand pounds, and nothing more.” 

*' Dear Lady Randolph, how good you are, ’ said Mrs. Berry- 
Montagu, with gentle derision; ‘‘what can you want with a child 
like this in your house?” 

‘ What can I do? Lucy would be wretched without him; he is 
the only tie she has, the only duty. What am I to do?” 

Mrs. Berry-Montagu shook her head softly, and smiled once 
more — smiled with the utmost significance. . ‘‘You must, indeed, 
see your way very clearly, ” she said, with that gentle languor which 
sat so well upon her, ‘ ‘ when you burden yourself with the boy. ’ ’ 

‘ I don’t know what you mean by seeing my way,” Lady Ran- 
dolph said, with some heat. An uncomfortable flush came upon 
her face, and something like consciousness to her manner. 4 ‘ I had 
no alternative. Taking Lucy, I was almost bound to take her 
brother too, when I found out her devotion to him. ’ 

“ Ah, you’re too good, too good, my dear- you don’t think half 
enough of your own interests,” said Lady Betsinda. “ If the girl 
lud come to me I’ll tell you what 1 should have done. I’d have 
been kind to her, but not too kind. I’d have let her see clearly that 
little brothers are sent to school, I’d have given her to understand 
that 1 was doing her a great favor in having her at all. She should 
not have wanted foi anything, I don't advise you or anybody to 
kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, but to make her the chief 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


147 


interest, and everything to give way to her, that’s what I would 
never do." 

“ I am afraid I shall have to take my own way, so far as that 
goes, ' * said Lady Randolph, roused to a little offense. 

“ Yes, dear, of course you will take your own way, we all do,” 
said Mrs Berry- Montagu, giving her friend a kiss before she went 
away, “ and I don’t doubt it will all come right in the end. " 

The two visitors went out together, and they slopped to talk for 
a moment before they parted at the door of the little stuffy brougham 
which carried Lady Betsinda from one place to another. 

" I suppose she has something in her head,” said the old lady. 
And, ” Oh, who can doubt it?” said the other; “ Sir Tom!” 

Was it true? Lady Randolph was very angry and impatient as 
she turned from the door, after the kiss which she had bestowed on 
each. Women have to kiss, as men shake hands, it is the estab- 
lished formula of parting among friends, not to be omitted, which 
would imply a breach, because of a little momentary flash of irrita 
tion. But the cause of her anger was not so much what they had 
said to her as that word of mutual confidence which she knew 
would pass between them at the door: was it true? If it had not 
been so Lady Randolph would not have divined it. She paced up 
and down her pretty drawing-room, giving one glance from the 
window to see, as she expected, the one lady standing at the door of 
the little carriage, while the wrinkled countenance of the other bent 
out from within. She saw Lady Betsinda give a great many nods 
of intelligence, and her heart burned within her with momentary 
fury. Often it happens that the worst of the pang of being found 
out is the revelation it makes to one’s self. Lady Randolph meant 
no harm; not to introduce her nephew to Lucy would have been, in 
the circumstances, a thing impossible; and who could expect her to be 
responsible for anything that might follow ? When an unmarried man 
meets a nice girl there is never any telling what may happen. And 
Lucy was certainly a nice girl, notwithstanding her ignorance and 
simplicity and her great fortune. To be sure, any connection of 
this kind would be a mesalliance for Tom; but even these were 
common incidents, and took place in the very highest circles. If 
this was fortune-hunting, then fortune-hunting was simple nature, 
and no more. After awhile the irritation died away. She sat down 
again and took up the book she had been reading when that com- 
mittee of direction came in and began their sitting upon her and her 
concerns. Lady Randolph was about sixty, a large and ample 
woman with no pretense at juvenility; but her eye was not dim or 


148 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


her natural force abated. There was only a small proportion of 
g ra y — j us t enough to give it an air of honest reality — in her abun- 
dant hair. As she sat and read a sentence or two, then paused and 
mused a little with the book closed over her hand, she recovered 
her composure, “What good will it do me?" she asked herself 
triumphantly. Had she been seeking her own advantage her con- 
duct might have been subject to blame; but she was not seeking her 
own advantage. Should any marriage come to pass it would de- 
prive her, at one stroke, of all the ccmfort which Lucy’s allowance 
brought her. She would be giving up, not gaining anything. 
When this thought passed through her mind it seemed a full answ r er 
to all possible objections, and she resumed her reading with the feel 
ing that she had put every caviller to silence, and nobly justified 
herself to herself. “ What advantage would it be to me?” the 
words twined themselves among those of the book she was reading, 
and appeared on every page more visible than the print. “ What 
good would it do to me? I should suffer by it,” she said. 

While Lady Randolph was thus employed down stairs Lucy and 
Jock were seated together at the window of the pretty little sitting 
room, which had been so carefully prepared for the girl’s comfort 
and pleasure. It was high up, but it had a pretty view over the 
gardens of the neighboring square, where soon the trees would 
begin to bud and blossom, and where even now the birds began to 
hold colloquies and prelude, with little interrogative pipings and 
chirpings, till it should be time for better music, while in front, 
though at some distance down, was the cheerful London street, in 
which there was always variety to eyes accustomed to the Terrace 
at Farafield. They had not tired yet of its sights and sounds, or 
found it noisy, as Lady Randolph sometimes did. The house was 
situated in one of the streets heading out of Grosvenor Square, and 
all sorts of things went past, wheelbarrows full of flowers, flowers 
in such quantities as they had never seen in the country, trades- 
people’s carts of every description, German bands, all kinds of 
amusing things. 

“Here is another organ,” cried Jock, with excitement; and he 
added, with a scream of delight, “it’s got a monkey! and there is 
another little boy on a pony,” the child added, with a sigh, half of 
pleasure, half of envy. “ What a long, lovely tail it has got! and 
here are two carriages coming, and a big van with a great picture 
outside. Did you think there w r ere as many things in London, 
Lucy? There is something passing every minute, and every day.” 

“ Oh, yes, I knew,” said Lucy, with calm superiority, from the 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


149 


other end of the room. " I told you all about Madame Tussaud’s, 
don’t you remember, before you went there? I read all that book 
about London,” she said, with modest pride. 

“ It isn’t a book,” said Jock, “ it is only a guide. What a funny 
thing it is that you can read that, and you don’t care for stories, or 
histories either.” 

Then there was a little pause. The boy on the pony cantered 
away, the big furniture- van with the landscape painted upon it 
lumbered along so slowly that its interest was more than exhausted, 
the carriages drew up at a house out of sight. There was a moment- 
ary lull, and Jock's interest flagged. He turned round, recalled to 
himself by this recollection of his favorite studies. 

“ Am I always to live here?” he asked suddenly. 

Now, this was a question that had much troubled Lucy’s mind ; 
for, indeed, Jock had not been expected, and his presence some- 
what disturbed the arrangements of Lady Randolph’s household, 
while, on the other hand, Lucy had already given to her little 
brother the position which every woman gives to some male creat' 
ure, and consulted his wishes with a servility which sometimes was 
ludicrously inappropriate, as in the present instance. She could 
not bring herself to hurt Jock’s feelings by suggesting that it would 
be better for him to go to school, though this conviction had beeu 
gaining upon her as her own mind calmed, and the child himself 
recovered his spirits and courage. Lucy’s heart began to beat a lit- 
tle faster when hei little autocrat broached the question. She came 
up to him and began to stroke and smooth the limp locks, which 
would not be picturesque, whatever was done to them 

” That is what vexes me a little, Jock; I don’t know. You ought 
to be getting on with your education, and Lady Randolph is very 
kind; but she did not know you were coming—” 

"Nor me either,” said Jock, regardless of grammar. He had 
got over this painful uprooting of his little life, but even at eight 
such a disturbance of habits is not easily got over. There was no 
white rug to lie down upon, no old father always seated there tc 
justify the strange existence of the child, and Lady Randolph, 
shocked by his indiscriminate reading, had provided him with good- 
little-boy books, which did not at all suit Jock. He mused a little, 
gazing down into the street, and then resumed. “ Nor me either. 
I would like some other place; I would like you and me to stay al- 
ways at home, as we used to do. 1 would like — ” 

Jock paused again, not very clear what it was that he would like, 
and Lucy looked vaguely over his head, waiting for the utterance 


150 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


of her oracle. Poor little oracle, for whom there was no certain and 
settled place! She stroked his hair softly, with infinite tenderness, 
in her half -motherly, half-childish soul, to make him amends for 
this wrong which Providence had done him. She did not know 
what to suggest, nor what place to think of, but watched him to 
divine his wishes, as if he had been double and not half her age. 

“ I would like,” said Jock, some gleam of association recalling to 
him one fable among the many that filled his memory, “ to be a 
giant like that one you told me the story about, you never told me 
the end of that story, Lucy. I’d like to be able to gc where I liked, 
and travel all over the world, and meet with black knights, and 
dwarfs, and armies marching — ’ ’ 

“There are no dwarfs nor giants nowadays,’ said Lucy, “but 
you will be able to go where you like when you are a man.’ 

“It’s so long to wait till you are a man,” said the child, pee 
vishly. * I’d like you and me to go away together and nobody to 
stop us. I'd like to be cast away on a desert island,” he cried, with 
a sudden perception of paradise; “ that’s what 1 should like best of 
all.” 

“ But I don’t think I should like it at all.” 

“ There!” he cried, 4 that is always how it is; you and me never 
like the same things I suppose it is because you are a girl. * This 
Jock said more regretfully than contemptuously, for he was very 
fond of his sister, and then he added, with a little sigh, not of sor 
row, but of resigned acceptance of a commonplace sort of expedient, 
not absolutely good, but the best in the circumstances, “ I suppose 
you had better send me to school.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RU8SELLS. 

“ That is just what I was thinking,” Lady Randolph said, 41 we 
can do two things, Lucy, two benefits at once. I know just the 
place for little Jock! since he wants to go to school— with a poor 
lady whom you will like to help— and,” she added, with a little 
softening of compassion, “where you could go to see him often; 
and he could come—” this addition was less cordial. Lady Ran- 
dolph was a woman too easily led away by her feelings. She 
thought of her committee, and restrained herself. “ Katie Russell 
must have told you about her mother. She has taken a house at 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


151 


Hampstead, or one of those places, and is trying to set up a little 
school. We are all on the outlook for Indian children, or, indeed, 
pupils of any kind. Jock will be quite happy there. She will take 
an interest in him as your brother. I have got her address some- 
where. Shall we go and look her up to-day?” 

Lucy’s eyes, before she replied, traveled anxiously to Jock’s face 
to read that little chart of varying sentiment, and take her guidance 
from it. But Jock’s face said nothing. He could not any longer 
lie on the hearth-rug, but he was doubled up in a corner by the fire, 
reading, as usual, one of the books with which Lady Randolph had 
thought it proper to supply him— a proper little story about little 
boys, supposed to be adapted to the caliber of eight years old. Per- 
haps it was more fit for him than the “ History of the Plague,” but 
he did not like it so well. 

“ I think that would be very nice, Lady Randolph,” said Lucy, 
doubtfully. 

“ Well, my dear, we can but go and see. Jock is too young to 
judge for himself; but he can come, too, and tell you how he likes 
it. Mrs. Russell is very kind, I believe. She is, also, rather feeble, 
and does not know quite so well what she would be at as one could 
wish. She is always changing her plans. It may help to fix her if 
we take her a pupil. It is a great blessing,” Lady Randolph said, 
with a sigh, “ when people know their own mind — especially poor 
people who have to be helped by their friends.” 

“ I wonder,” said Lucy, “ if it is more difficult to be poor than to 
be rich.” 

“ Oh, there can be little doubt about that— for women, at least. 
I ahi not in the least sorry for the butchers and bakers — they have 
their trade — or for our house-maids, which is the same thing; but 
you and I, Lucy. If anything were to happen, if we were to lose 
all our money, what should we do?” 

“ I should not be afraid,” said Lucy, quietly, “ for you know I 
was born poor, but to have a great deal of money, and not know 
how to employ it— that was always what papa said. He gave me a 
great many directions; but I don’t know if I understood them, and 
sometimes I do not feel sure whether he understood. Life is differ- 
ent here and at the Terrace, Lady Randolph.” 

“ Very different, my dear; but you need not bewilder your poor 
little head just yet. You will be older, you will have more experi- 
ence before you have any occasion to trouble yourself about the 
employment of your money. I have no doubt all the investments 
are excellent — your father had a good business head.” 


152 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


“ It was not about investments I was thinking,” Lucy said. “ I 
have no power over them. 1 ' 

“ Nor over anything else, fortunately, at your present age,” Lady 
Randolph said, with a smile. “We may all be very thankful for 
that; for I fear, unless you are very unlike other girls, that you 
would throw a good deal of it away.” Lucy did not smile, or take 
any notice of this pleasantry. Her next remark was very serious. 
“ Don’t you think,” she said, “ that it is very wrong for me to be 
so rich, when others are so poor?” 

“ A little Radical,” cried Lady Randolph, with a laugh. “ Why, 
Lucy, I never thought a proper little woman like you would enter- 
tain such revolutionary sentiments.” 

“You see,” said Lucy, very gravely, “ it is upon me the burden 
falls; every one feels most what is most hard upon themselves.” 

Lady Randolph laughed again, but this time with a puzzled air. 
“Hard upon you!” she said. “My dear, half the girls in Eng- 
land— and the men, too— would give their heads to have half so 
much reason to complain.” 

‘ Men, perhaps, might understand better, Lady Randolph; but it 
is altogether very strange. Papa must have known a great deal bet- 
ter; but he did nothing himself. All that he wanted, so far as I can 
make out, was to make more and more money; and then left the 
use of it — the spending of it — to a giri that knows nothing. I never 
took much thought of this while he was living, but I feel very be- 
wildered now.” 

“ Wait a little,” Lady Randolph said, “ you will find it very easy 
after awhile; and, when you marry, your husband will give you a 
great deal of assistance. In England you can never be at a loss in 
spending the largest income; and the more you have, the more sat- 
isfactorily you can spend it, the better return you have for your 
money. It is among us poor' people that money is most unsatis- 
factory. It never brings so much as it ought,” she said, with that 
air of playfulness which, on such subjects, is the usual disguise for 
the most serious feeling. Lucy looked up at her with a gravity that 
disdained all disguise. 

“ But you do not mean to say. Lady Randolph, that you are 
poor?” 

This question brought the color to Lady Randolph’s face. “You 
are very downright, my dear, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ but I will be honest, too. 
Yes, Lucy, I am poor. The allowance that is made for you is a 
great matter for me. Without that I should not have dreamed — 
My dear, you must not think I mean anything unkind — ” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


153 


“ Oh, no; you could not have cared for me even had I been nicer 
than I am,” said Lucy, “ for you had never seen me. Then I am 
rather glad it is so, Lady Randolph; but you should not give me so 
many things.” 

Lady Randolph laughed, but the moisture came into her eyes. 
“ Lucy, I begin to think you are a darling,” she said. 

“ Do you?” cried Lucy, with a warm flush which gave her face 
a certain beauty for a moment. “ But I am afraid not,” she said, 
shaking her head. “ Nobody ever said that. I am glad, very glad 
that you think you will not mind having me; and it is very, very 
kind of you to do so much for me. But I should be quite as happy 
if you liked me, and did not buy so many things for me. Is it vul- 
gar to say it? I am almost ^fraid it is. I never had anything half 
— not a tenth part so nice at the Terrace as you give me here.” 

“ You were a little school-girl then, and now you are a young 
lady — a great heiress, and must begin to live as such people do.” 

Lucy shook her head again. “I am only me,” she said, with a 
smile, “ all the same.” 

“Not quite the same; but to leave these perplexing subjects, what 
is to be done about your own studies, Lucy?” 

“ Must I have studies?” she asked, with a tone of melancholy; 
then added, submissively, “ Whatever you think best, Lady Ran- 
dolph.” 

“ My dear, you are far too good. I should like you to have a lit- 
tle will of your own.” 

“ Oh, yes, J have a will of my own. If you please, I do not 
wish to have any more lessons. I will read books; but they all said 
I never would play very well, and I can not draw at all. I can 
speak French a little, but it is very bad, and I have done about 
twenty German exercises,” Lucy said, with a shudder. 

“ Poor child! but I fear you must go on with these dreadful ex- 
periences. Perhaps a good German governess for a year—” 

Lucy shuddered again. She thought of the Fraulein at the White 
House, with an inward prayer for deliverance. The Fraulein knew 
everything, all her own business, and other people’s special 
branches, even better than her own. Her very spectacles shone 
with knowledge. 

“ They can not be all like each other,” Lucy said, “ and I will 
do whatever you like, Lady Randolph.” 

There was never a girl so docile and obedient. Lady Randolph 
almost regretted the absence of all struggle, till her eyes fell upon 
little Jock in the corner, holding his book somewhat languidly. 


154 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Jock did not care for this correct literature; the last thing in the 
world that he had any acquaintance with was the doings of children 
at school. 

“ Do you like your story-book, Jock?” 

“ No,” said Jock, concisely. 

He let it drop from his hand; he did not even feel very deeply de- 
sirous of knowing what was the end. 

“Iam sorry for that; I hunted it up for you out of my old nurs- 
ery. Nobody had touched the things for thirty years. ” 

“ It is very pretty— outside, ” Jock said, eying the gilding, “ but 
I don’t care much about little boys,” he added, with dignity, “I 
don’t know what it means.” 

“ That is because you are so little, my dear.” 

“ Oh, no, because I — don’t understand it. X have read much 
nicer books; the ‘ History of the Plague,’ that was what I liked 
best, better than ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ as good as the ‘Pilgrim’s 
Progress.’ ” 

“ How old-fashioned the child is!” Lady Randolph said. “ Will 
you come with us to see the school where Lucy wishes you to go?” 

“ Lucy did not wish it,” said the boy, “ it was me, I told her. I 
will go, because I suppose it is the right thing. You can’t grow up 
to be a giant, or even a common man, without going to school. I 
do not like it at all, but it is the right thing to do.” 

“ You are a wise little man,” said Lady Randolph, “ and do you 
think you may perhaps grow up a giant, Jock?” 

“ Not in tallness,” Jock said. 

He looked at her with something like contempt, and she was 
cowed in spite of herself. His very reticence impressed her, for he 
relapsed into silence, and gave no further explanation, not caring 
even to describe in what, if not in tallness, he expected to be a 
giant; and the two sat and looked at each other for a minute in si 
lence. They looked very unlikely antagonists, but it was not the 
least important of the two who was most nervous. Lady Randolph 
felt as if it was she who was the inexperienced, the uninstructed 
one. She did not like to venture out of her depth again. 

“ Will you go and get your hat and come with us? You must be 
very kind to Lucy, and not worry her. You know she does not 
want you to leave her; but also, you know, little Jock—” 

Lady Randolph looked at him with a little alarm, feeling that his 
big eyes saw through and through her, and not knowing what 
weird insight might be in them, or what strange thing he might say. 

But Jock’s answer was to get up, and put away his book. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


155 


“lam going,” he said. 

It was the old lady who was afraid of him. She sat and watched 
him, and was glad when he was gone. Lucy was comprehensible 
and manageable, but the child dismayed and troubled her. Poor 
little forlorn boy! There was no home for him anywhere, no one 
to care for him but Lucy, who no doubt would form, as people say> 
“ other ties.” 

It was a bright morning in March, the skies full of the beauty of 
spring, the air fresh with showers, the sun shining; the buds were 
beginning to swell on the trees, and primroses coming out in the 
suburban gardens. Jock looked somewhat forlorn, ad by himself, 
in the front seat of the carriage, buttoned closely into his great- coat, 
and looking smaller than ever as his delicate little face looked out 
from the thick collar; opposite to Lady Randolph’s portly person, 
in her great furred mantle, he looked like a little waxen image; and 
he sat very stiffly, trying to draw up his thin little legs beneath him, 
but now and then receiving a warning glance from Lucy, who was 
extremely nervous about his manners. They were both amused, 
however, by the long drive across London, and up the hill toward 
the northern suburbs. Lady Randolph did not know the way. She 
took almost as much interest as they did in the animated streets. 

‘ ‘ Jock, little Jock, there is the heath. Do you see the big furze 
bushes?” she said. “ How strange to see a place so wild, yet so near 
town!” 

‘ 4 It is not so good as our common,” Jock said. Yet school took 
a more smiling aspect after he had got a glimpse of the broken 
ground and wild vegetation. 

They drew up at last after a troublesome search (for Lady Ran- 
dolph’s coachman would not have betrayed any knowledge of that 
out-of-the-way locality for worlds, it was as much as his reputation 
was worth) before a little new house with a bay-window and a small 
square patch of green called a garden. Through the bay-window 
there was a dim appearance visible of some one seated at a table 
writing; but when the carriage stopped there was evidently a great 
commotion in the house, and the dim figure disappeared. Some one 
hastily opening an upper window, a sound of bells rung, and of 
noisy footsteps running up and down the stairs, were all audible to 
the little party seated in the carriage, who were amused by all this 
pantomime. 

“ She will have a headache,” Lady Randolph said, “ as soon as 
she sees ns.” 


15 O 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EKGLAKD. 


Lucy, for her part, felt that to sit at her ease, and witness the flut- 
ter in the house, of excitement and expectation, was scarcely gener 
ous. She was relieved when the d,oor opened. It wounded her to 
see the disdain of the footman, the scorn with which he contem- 
plated the house, and the maid who came to the door; all this pene- 
trated her mind with a curious sense of familiarity. Mrs. Ford, 
too, would have been greatly excited had a pair of prancing horses 
drawn up before her door, and a great lady in furs and velvet been 
seen about, to enter; and Lucy knew that she herself would have 
rushed out of the parlor, had she been sitting there, and would have 
been apt to fly to an upstairs window and peep out upon the un- 
wonted visitor. She felt all this in the person of the others, to 
whom she was coming in the capacity of a great lady. * She had 
never felt so humble or so insignificant as when she stepped out of 
the carriage, following Lady Randolph. Jock grasped at her hand 
as he jumped down. He clung to it with both his without saying 
a word. He did not feel at all sure that he was not now, this very 
moment, to be consigned to separation and banishment, and the new 
life of school for which he had offered himself as a victim. He 
contemplated that approaching fate with courage, with wide-open, 
unwinking eyes, but all the same at the descent of Avernus, at the 
mouth of the pit, so to speak, clung to his only protector, his sole 
comforter. She stooped down and kissed him hurriedly as they 
crossed the little green. 

“ You sha’n’t go if you do not like it, Jock.” 

“ But I am going,” said the child, with courage that was heroic; 
though he clung to her hand as if he never would let it go, all the 
same. 

Mrs. Russell was a pretty, faded woman, with hair like Katie’s, 
and the same blue eyes; but the mirth was out of them, and puckers 
of anxiety had come instead. She had put up her handkerchief to 
her forehead when Lucy entered the room. She had a headache, as 
Lady Randolph divined. There was a little flush of excitement 
upon her cheeks. When Lucy was introduced to her she gave tiie 
girl a wistful look first, then made an anxious inspection of her, re- 
turning again and again, Lucy felt, to her face. Was not there in 
that look the inevitable contrast which it was so impossible to help 
making? 

“Is this,” she said, “the young lady Katie has written to me 
about?” She added, faltering, after a moment, “ the dear young 
friend who has been so kind to her?” and again she turned a ques- 
tioning, wistful look upon Lucy, whose fate was so different. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 157 

“ Indeed,” said Lucy, “ I could not be kind, I wish I could; but 
I like Katie very dearly, Mrs. Russell.” 

“ Ah, my dear, if I may call you so,” cried the poor woman with 
the headache, ** that is the very sweetest thing you could say,” but 
all the same her eyes kept questioning. What had the heiress come 
for? What had Lady Randolph come for? When visitors like 
these enter a very poor house, should not some pearls and diamonds 
fail from their lips, some little wells of comforting wealth spring up 
beneath their feet? 

“ How does the school go on?” said Lady Randolph; “ that is the 
cause of our visit, really. I heard of a little boy — but how does it 
go on? Did you settle about those Indian children?” 

“ Ah,” said Mrs. Russell, “ there is nothing so hard to get as In- 
dian children; they are the prizes; if one can but get a good con- 
nection in that way, one’s fortune is made; but there are so many 
that want them. It seems to me that there is nothing in all the 
world but a crowd of poor ladies fighting for pupils. It will be 
strange to you, Miss Trevor, to hear any one talk iiKe that, ’ she 
added. 

She could not help, it would seem, this reference to Lucy; a giii 
who was made ot money, who could support dozens of families and 
never tee! it. It was not that the poor lady wanted her money, but 
sue could not nelp feeling a wistful wonder aoout ner, a young 
creature whose fate was so different! When one is very poor it is 
so natural to admire wealth, and so curious to see it, and watch its 
nappy owners, if only to note m what way they differ Lucy did 
not differ in any way, at which poor Mrs. Russell admired and won- 
dered all the more. 

But you have some pupils?” Lady Randolph said. 

“Yes, three in the house, and six who are day-schoiars Bertie 
tells me it is not such a bad beginning. I tried for little boys, be- 
cause there are so few, in comparison, that take little boys; and 
Bertie teaches them Latin.” 

“ I thought your son was to get a situation.” 

** Yes, indeed, but some one else got it instead; one can hardly 
grudge it, when one knows how many poor young fellows there are 
with nothing. He is writing,” Mrs. Russell said, with some pride. 

“ Writing!” Lady Randolph echoed with dismay, mingled with 
contempt. Their points of view were very different. To the 
mother, fortune seemed to be hovering, doubtful, yet very possible, 
over the feather of her boy’s pen; to the woman of the world, a 
little clerkship in an office would have been much more satisfac- 


158 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


tory. “You should not encourage him in that; I fear it is not 
much better than idleness/’ Lady Randolph said, shaking her head. 

“ Idleness! look at Mr. Trollope, and all those gentlemen; it is a 
fine profession! a noble profession!” said the poor lady fervently; 
but she added, with a sigh, ‘ if he could only get an opening, that 
is the hard thing. If he only knew somebody! Bertie takes the 
Latin, and Mary the English, and I superintend, and give the music 
lessons. ’ ’ 

“ And you are getting on?” 

The poor woman looked the rich woman (as she thought) in the 
face, with eyes that filled with tears. She could not answer in 
words before the. strangers. She mutely and faintly shook her 
head, with a pathetic attempt at a smile. 

Both Lucy and little Jock saw the silent communication, and 
divined it, perhaps, better than the elder lady. As for Lucy, her 
heart ached with sympathy, and a flood of sudden resolutions, in- 
tentions, took possession of her; but what could she do? She had 
1o keep silent, holding Jock’s little hand fast, w T ho stood by her 
knee. 

“ I thought you might perhaps have an opening for the little boy 
I heard of. He is a delicate child, and peculiar; he would require 
a great deal of special care. If you think you have time — ” 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Russell, the pink flush deepening on her cheeks, 

‘ plenty of time! And I think I may say for myself that I am very 
good with delicate children. I take an interest in them. 1 — you 
would like to see Bertie, perhaps, about the Latin?” Mrs. Russell 
rang her bell hastily. She was feverishly anxious to conclude the 
bargain without loss of time. ‘ Will you tell M'r. Bertie I want 
him?” she said, going to the door, to anticipate the maid, who was 
not too anxious to reply. “ I am here, mother,” they heard in a 
youthful bass — at no great distance — evidently the house was all in 
a stir of expectation. Mrs. Russell came back with a little nervous 
laugh. “Bertie will be here directly,” she said. ‘I would ask 
you to step into the school-room, and see them; but the truth is 
they are all out for a walk. Mary has taken them to the heath. It 
is so good for them— and it was such a beautiful day— and my 
headache was particularly bad. When my headache is very bad, 
the voices of the children drive me wild.” Poor soul! as soon as 
she had said this, she perceived that it was a thing inexpedient to 
say. But by this time the door had opened again, and introduced 
a new figure. He came in with his hands in his pockets, after the 
manner of young men. He, too, was like Katie; but his face was 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


159 


cloudy, not so open as hers, and his features handsomer. He stood 
hesitating, his eyes going from one to another; to Lucy first — was 
not that natural? Then he straightened himself out, and took a 
hand from one of his pockets, and presented it to Lady Randolph. 
He was eager too, but with a suppressed bravado, as if anxious to 
show that he did not mean it, and was himself personally much at 
his ease. 

“ So this is Bertie!” said Lady Randolph. “ What a long time 
it must be since I have seen him! Why, you are a man now; and 
what a comfort it must be to your mother to have you with her!” 

Mrs. Russell clasped her thin hands. “Yes, it is a comfort!” 
she said. “ What should I do if Bertie were away?” 

Lucy was in the position of a spectator while all this was going 
on, and though she was not a great observer, something jarred in 
this little scene, she could not tell what. She surprised a glance 
from the mother to the son, which did not chime in with her words, 
and Bertie himself did not respond with enthusiasm. “ I don’t 
know if I am a comfort,” he said; “ but here I am anyhow, and 
very glad to see an old friend.” 

“ I hear you are coming out as a literary character, Bertie?” 

“Iam trying to write a little; it seems the best trade nowadays, 

I believe there are heaps of money to be made by it,” he said, with 
that air of careless grandeur which is so delightful to the unsophisti- 
cated imagination, “ and not much trouble. The only thing is to 
get one’s hand in.” 

“ That is what I was telling Lady Randolph,” said his mother, 
her thin hands clasping and unclasping; “ to get an opening — that 
is all you want.” 

“ But you require to be very clever, Bertie,” said Lady Randolph, 
gravely disapproving, “ to make anything by writing. I have heard 
people say in society — ” 

“ No,” said the young man, “ not at all, it is only a knack; there 
is nothing that costs so little trouble. You want training for every 
other profession, but anybody can write. I think I know what I 
am about.” 

Then there was a momentary silence, Mrs. Russell looked at her 
son with wistful admiration, not unmingled with a furtive and 
painful doubt, while Lady Randolph contemplated him with a 
severity which was resentful, as if poor Bertie’s pretensions did 
her, or any one else, any harm. This pause, which was somewhat 
embarrassing, was broken by Jock, whose small voice, suddenly 
uplifted, startled them all. 


160 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 


“Is it stories he writes, Lucy? I would like to learn to write 
stories. I think I will stay here,” he said. But Jock was con- 
fused by the attention attracted by his utterance, and the faces of 
all those grown-up people turned toward him. “ I can’t write at 
all yet,” he said, growing very red, planting himself firmly against 
Lucy, and facing the company, half apologetic, half defiant. Be- 
tween pot-hooks and novels there is a difference; but why should 
not the one branch of skill be learned as well as the other? Jock 
knew no reason why. 


CHAPTER XXL 

POWER. 

This visit made a turning-point in Lucy’s life. She returned 
home very thoughtful, more serious than usual — a result which 
seemed very easily comprehensible to her experienced friend. To 
part with her little brother was another trial for the girl; what 
wonder that it should bring back the grief that was still so fresh? 
Lucy said nothing about it; which was quite like her, for she was 
not a girl who made much show of her feelings. But it was not 
either her past sorrow — or the present “ trial ” of parting with Jock 
that moved Lucy — something else worked in her mind. The very 
sight of the poor household with all its anxieties, the struggle for 
existence which was going on, the hopes most likely to produce 
nothing but disappointment, struck a new chord in her. She was 
more familiar with the level of commonplace existence on which 
they were struggling to hold their place than with the soft and 
costly completeness of life on Lady Randolph's lines. The outside 
aspect of the house had carried her back to the Terrace; the busied 
and somewhat agitated maid who opened the door, unaccustomed 
to such fine company, the flutter and flurry of expectation through- 
out the house, no one knowing who it was who had come, but all 
expecting some event out of the way, had made Lucy smile with 
sympathy, yet blush to think that such an insignificant personage 
as herself was the stranger received with so much excitement. So 
far Lucy knew and recognized the state of feeling in the house; but 
she had never known that struggle of poverty which was every- 
where visible, and it went to her heart. This occupied all her 
thoughts as she went back; and when she got home she disap- 
peared into her own room for a long time, somewhat to the surprise 
of Lady Randolph, who, as so often happens, was specially disposed 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


161 


for her young companion’s society. Lucy sent even Jock away. She 
dispatched him with Elizabeth, her maid, to buy something he 
would want before going to sclioo] ; and bringing her little old-fash- 
ioned desk to her little sitting-room, sat down with it before the 
fire. It was a cold day, though bright, and Lucy thought, with 
pain that was almost personal, of the sputtering of the newly lighted 
fire in Mrs. Russell’s cold drawing-room, and of all the signs of 
poverty about. Why should people be so different? She opened the 
desk, which was full of little relics of her girlhood; little rubbishy 
drawings which the other girls, at Mrs. Stone’s, had done for her; 
and even little French exercises and virtuous essays of her own, 
all religiously put away. The desk was a very common little ar- 
ticle, opening in two unequal divisions, so as to form a blue velvet 
slope on which to write; a thing much more adapted to be laid out 
upon one of the little tables in the Terrace drawing-room than to 
have a place here, where everything was so much more refined. 

But all Lucy’s little secrets reposed under that blue velvet; and 
in a drawer which shut with a spring, and was probably called 
secret, there was a packet of much more importance than Lucy’s 
little souvenirs. She opened it with tremulous care. It was a 
bundle of memoranda in her father's handwriting, done up with a 
bit of string, as was his way. He had tied them up himself, direct 
ing her to read them over frequently. Lucy had never touched the 
sacred packet up to this moment; her awe had been greater than 
her curiosity. Indeed, there had been little ground for curiosity, 
for she had heard him read, as they were written,- all these scraps 
which were the studies for his great work of art, the will, into 
which old Mr. Trevor had concentrated his mind and the meaning 
of his life. She had heard them, listening very dutifully; but yet 
it was as if she had not heard at all, so lightly had they floated over 
her — so little had she thought of them. She had been entirely ac- 
quainted with all his plans for her, and all the serious occupations 
he had planned out; but she had taken them calmly for granted, as 
things not affecting her for the moment. Now, however, quite 
suddenly, Lucy realized that she was not a helpless person, but 
powerful for aid and assistance to her fellow- creatures even now, 
young as she was. She gave but one glance, half-smiling, to 
Maude Langton’s drawings, and Lily Barrington’s pincushion, and 
the pen- wiper made for her by Katie Russell ; then took out her little 
bundle of scrappy papers, the string of which she untied carefully 
and with difficulty, with a reverent thought of the old man whose 
withered fingers had drawn it so tight. It was with some difficulty 


162 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


that Lucy found, among the many memoranda in her hands, the 
one she sought. They were all embodied in the will. She found 
the stipulations about her residence, half in high-life, half in what 
Mr. Trevor called a middling way. And about her marriage, an 
event so distant and improbable that Lucy smiled again in maiden 
calm, wholly fancy free, as the world met her eye. At last here it 
was. She shut the others carefully into the desk, and began to 
read. And it was so remarkable a document that it will not be 
amiss if we give it here. This, as we have said, was but the 
memorandum, the rough draught, afterward put into more formal 
language in the will itself : 

“ The fortune which my daughter Lucy is to inherit, having 
been made by her uncle James Rainy, as may be said, out of noth- 
ing — that is to say, without any but the smallest bit of money to 
begin with, all by his own industry and clear-headedness — and very 
honestly made, though perhaps not without being to the detriment 
here and there of another person, not so clever as he was — it is my 
desire that his heiress should give back a part of it to her fellow- 
creatures, from whom it came. For, however honestly money is 
made, it is quite clear, to anybody that will examine the question, 
that if it is nothing more than buying in the cheapest market and 
selling in the dearest, it must always be taking something off the 
comfort of other people. The best of men can’t do less than this; 
and I am sure James Rainy was one of the best of men. But as it 
came out of nothing, and out of the pockets of other people, I think 
it but right tnat James Rainy s niece should give it back — a part of 
it, that is to say. I wish it clearly to be understood that the half of 
the Rainy property, whatever it may amount to when I die — and I 
hope I have been able to add a little by great attention to business, 
and giving up my whole thoughts to it — is to be kept intact, and 
not to be touched in any way, making a very good fortune for 
Lucy and her heirs forever But the other half she shall be free to 
dispose of, giving it back to the community, out of which it came. 
Foreigners are not to be eligible, though part of it was no doubt 
made out of foreigners; but the kind that come fluttering about rich 
folks in England, and carrying off a great deal of our money, are 
not the kind among whom James Rainy made his fortune, and I 
say again foreigners are not to be eligible. Most people would say 
that, having a great deal of money to give away, the thing to do 
would be to establish hospitals, and give large subscriptions; but I 
don’t believe in subscriptions for my part. Besides that is the com- 
mon way. What I want Lucy to do is to give the money to in- 


L 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


163 


dividuals or families whom she comes across, those that really want 
it. I wish her to remember that I don’t tell her to do this in order 
to please herself, nor to make herself look like a great personage, 
nor to get applause or even gratitude. Applause she is not to get, 
since this part of my will I require to be kept secret as far as possi- 
ble, and every gift to be kept an absolute secret from all but my 
executors, and the receivers of the bounty; and gratitude she must 
not expect. It is a poor thing to look for it, and I don’t much be- 
lieve in it for my part. What she has to do is a simple duty, hav- 
ing a great deal more money than she can ever know what to do 
with. And she is not to give little dribbles of money which encour- 
age pauperism; but when she sees a necessity to give enough, liber- 
ally, and without grudging. If it’s to a man to set him up in busi- 
ness, or help him on in whatever his trade may be; and if it’s a 
woman, to give her an income that she can live on, and bring up 
her children upon, with economy and good management. I don’t 
want any one to get damage by what she gives, as happens when 
you give a ten-pound note, or a fifty, or even a hundred. Let her 
give them enough — she has plenty to draw upon — according to their 
position and what they are used to; capital that can be of real use 
in business, or an income that can be managed, and made the most 
of It is giving the money back to those from whom it came. I 
also require that my daughter Lucy should be left the fullest liberty 
of choice. She must satisfy my executors that the case is a necessi- 
tous one; but nothing more. She is not bound to give guarantees 
of any kind, or a good character even, or testimonials from other 
people. The thing is to be between herself and those she gives to. 
She will make many mistakes, but she is very sensible, and she 
will learn in time. 

“ I further stipulate that my said daughter Lucy is to enter upon 
the possession of this right as soon as I am dead, whether she is of 
age at that period or not. I expect of her obedience to all my rules 
for seven years, as far as regards herself; but in this particular she 
/is to be perfectly free, and no one is to have any power of control 
' over her — neither her guardians, nor her husband when she gets 
one. This is my last wish and desire.” 

She had known vaguely that this was how it was; but when Lucy 
had heard the paper read by her father’s own lips, she had not paid 
very much attention to it. It was so far away— so unlike anything 
that lay in her placid girlish life, which, at that time, had no power 
whatever in it, except to buy Jock a new book now and then out of 
her pocket- money. Lucy fancied she could gee herself sitting 


164 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


quiet and unmoved over her knitting, listening as a matter of duty, 
not thinking much of what it was that papa wrote down in these 
interminable papers. How placidly she had taken it all! It had 
been nothing to her; though she had received from him a certain 
gravity of reflection, and sense of the incumbrances and responsi- 
bilities of her wealth, yet that had come chiefly since his death, and 
she recalled the easy calm of her own mind before that event with 
surprise. Now, as she read these words over again, which had 
floated so calmly over her before, a thrill of warm life and excite- 
ment ran through her being. She had it in her power to change all 
that, to make poor Mrs. Russell comfortable, to lift her up above 
all necessity. Was it possible? Lucy’s heart began to beat, her 
mind trembled at the suggestion — it made her head giddy. That 
nervous, tremulous woman so full of self-betrayals, letting the 
spectators see against her will how anxious she was, how full of 
fear, even in professing herself to be full of hope. Was it possible 
that a word from Lucy would smooth away half of her incipient 
wrinkles, correct the anxious lines round the corners of her eyes, 
and calm her whole agitated being? Lucy felt her head go round 
and round with that sense of delightful incomprehensible power. 
She could do it, there was no doubt or question; and how willing 
she would be to do it, how glad, how eager? She put her papers 
back again, with her whole frame tingling and in commotion A 
girl is seldom so excited, except by something about a lover, some 
shadow of the new life coming over her, some revelation of the 
mysteries and sweetness to come; but Lucy had never been awak- 
ened on this subject. She knew nothing about love, and cared less, 
if that can be believed, but the very breath was taken away from 
her and her head made giddy by this sudden consciousness of 
power. 

Next day Lucy had a visitor, in the morning, before there was 
any question of visitors, when she and Jock were seated alone. It 
was Mary Russell, with a little flush on her face, and somewhat 
breathless, who appeared behind the maid when the door opened. 
Mary was the plainest one of the family, a girl with a round cheer- 
ful face, and no special beauty of any kind— not like her handsome 
brother, who had the air of a man of fashion, or Katie, who was one 
of the prettiest girls at Mrs. Stone’s. It was not Mary’s role to be 
pretty; she was the useful one of the family. In most cases there 
is one member of a household specially devoted to this part; and 
if it had happened that Mary had grown up beautiful, as sometimes 
happens, no doubt her claims would have been steadily ignored by 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


165 


the rest of the family, who thought of her in no such light. She 
was the one who did what the others did not like to do. She came 
in with a little hesitation, with a blush and shy air of deprecating 
anxiety. The blush deepened as she met Lucy’s surprised look; 
she sat down with an awkwardness that was not natural to her. 
She was scarcely seventeen, younger than Lucy; but had already 
learned so much of the darker side of life. Yet there was in Mary 
none of the self-contrasts nor the anxious adulation of her mother. 
She had so much to do, she had not time to think how much worse 
off she was than this other girl, her contemporary in life. 

“I came to see — when it would suit you to send — Master Tre- 
vor,” Mary said, faltering a little. “ Mamma feared — that perhaps 
you might be discouraged by seeing that the house was not — But I 
will see that he is very well taken care of, and — regular with his 
lessons. I am always with them. It is a holiday to-day, that is 
why I have come out.” 

(The family had taken fright after Lucy had gone; they had 
doubted the possibility of so much good fortune coming their way; 
they had trembled with apprehension lest a letter should reach them 
next morning informing them that some other school had been rec- 
ommended to Lady Randolph, or that Miss Trevor feared that the 
air of the heath would be too keen for her little brother; and Mary 
had, as usual, put herself in the breach. “ I will go and find out,” 
she had said; “ they can not eat me, at the very worst.” This was 
Mary’s way; the rest of the house waited and fretted, and made all 
around them miserable, but she preferred to cut the knot.) 

“ You see, Miss Trevor,” she continued, “ mamma is very anx- 
ious to get a good connection. I do not care so much, for my part; 
but it is gentlemen’s sons she wants, and she thinks that if we were 
known to have your brother — ” 

“ But I am nobody,” said Lucy, “ and Jock is — Papa was only 
a school-master himself. He was not even a good school-master. 
He taught the common people; and I don’t think that having Jock 
would make much difference.” 

Mary looked at her with wistful eyes. 

“ He is your brother,” she said. 

“ But, indeed, indeed, I am nobody,” cried Lucy, “ scarcely a 
lady at all, only allowed to live here, and be well thought of, be- 
cause I have a great deal of money. I am not so good as you are; 
even Katie, though she was known to be poor, they said at school, 
‘She is one of the Russells.’ Now that could never be said of 
me; I am not one of the anybodies,” Lucy said, with a little smile, 


166 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“I have nothing hut my money,” she added, eying Mary with 
great earnestness; “ it is good for something; there are some things, 
indeed, that it can do;” here she paused, and looked at the other 
girl again very doubtfully, almost anxiously. Mary did not know 
what it meant. She had come as a supplicant, wistfully desirous of 
making a good impression upon the rich and fortunate heiress. 
Only to be connected in the most superficial way with this favorite 
of fortune would do them good, her mother thought. But she was 
deeply puzzled by Lucy’s look at her, which was wistful too. 

“ Yes, there is a great deal that it can do,” said Mary. ” When 
one has so very, very much, it is as good as being born a princess. 
It is better to be of a good family when you have only a little, but 
when you are as rich as — as an ‘ Arabian Night, ’ what does it mat- 
ter? Other boys would come from other prosperous places if it were 
known that you had brought your brother.” 

“ I wish,” cried Lucy, “oh! I wish that I could do more than 
that.” 

Mary’s cheeks grew crimson; she tried to laugh. 

“ That is all we want, Miss Trevor. We want only a good con- 
nection, and to get our school known.” 

In a moment the characters of the two girls had changed; it was 
the heiress that was the supplicant. She looked very anxiously in 
the other’s eyes, who, on her side, understood somehow, though she 
knew nothing about it. 

‘‘We are getting on,” said Mary, with that flush of generous 
pride and courage; ‘‘oh, I am not afraid we shall get on! There 
may be a struggle at the beginning, everybody has a struggle, but 
we have only got to stand firm, and not to give in. Mamma gets 
frightened, but I am not a bit frightened; besides, she is not 
strong, and when people are not strong everything tells upon them. 
Of course we shall have a struggle— how could it be otherwise — 
there are so many poor people in the world; but in the end all will 
come right; and, Miss Trevor,” she added, with a little flush of ex- 
citement, “ if you don’t think our house is good enough, never 
mind. We should like to know, but I don’t wish to urge you, if 
you are not satisfied. We don’t want any to come who is not satis- 
fied; all the same we shall get on.” 

Lucy looked at her almost with envy. 

“Yes,” she said, shaking her head, following out her own 
thoughts. “ I suppose it is true that there are a great many poor 
people in the world.” 

“ Oh, so many!” Mary said; “ poor women struggling and strug- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 167 

gling to live. Though we are struggling ourselves, it makes my 
heart sore; there are so many worse off than we are. But we must 
get on, whatever happens. I tell mamma so. What is the use of 
fretting, I say, all will come right in the end; but she can not keep 
her heart up. It is because she is not strong,” Mary said, a tear 
coming furtively to her eyes. 

“I know what papa meant now,” said Lucy. “I had never 
thought of it. It is a sin for one to have so much, and others noth- 
ing. If it could only be taken and divided, and eveiybody made 
comfortable — so much to you, and so much to me, and every one 
the same — how much better, how much happier! but how am I to 
do it?” she said, clasping her hands. 

Mary stood opening her blue eyes, then laughed, with youthful 
ease and frankness, though far from free of tears. “ How strange 
that you should say that! I thought it was only poor people and 
Radicals that said that. You can’t be a Radical, Miss Trevor? But 
it would be no good,” said the sensible girl, shaking her head, 
“even I have seen enough to be sure of that. If we had all the 
same one day, there would be rich and . poor again the next. It is 
in people’s nature. But this is a long way off from what I came 
to ask you, ’ ’ she said, dropping her voice, with a little sigh. 

Jock had been in the room all the time. He was one of the chil- 
dren whom no one ever notices, who hear everything, and bide 
their time. He came forward all at once, startling Mary, who 
turned to him in alarm, with a little cry. “ Are you fond of the 
‘Arabian Nights’?” he said. “ I am not so very fond of them 
now — they are for when you are quite little, when you don’t know 
anything. When I come, I will tell you quantities of things, if you 
like. I can tell you all Shakespeare. I told Lucy; she does not 
know much, ’ ’ Jock said, with genial contempt. 

“Perhaps you will think I don't know very much; but I shall 
teach you your lessons,” said Mary, with tremulous satisfaction, 
yet a little pedagogic assertion of her own superiority. Jock looked 
at her with attention, studying this new specimen of the human 
race. 

“You must not think he is naughty,” said Lucy, interposing 
-eagerly. “ He is a very good boy. Though he is so little, he knows 
a great deal. And he always understands. You may think he is a 
trouble with his stories, and the fairy books he has read. But he 
is no trouble,” his sister cried, “ he is the greatest comfort. I don’t 
know what I should have done without Jock; and I am sure you 
will like him too. We are going to get him his things this after- 


168 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


noon, and to-morrow I am to bring liim,” Lucy added, in her usual 
tranquil tones. 

“ Then that is all right,” said Mary. She thought it was all her 
doing — that the question had been a doubtful one, and that it was 
the decided step she had taken which had secured this important 
little scholar. He was to pay better than any of the rest, and he 
was, it might be hoped, the first of a better connection. Mary got up 
to go home with a satisfaction in her supposed success, which was 
almost triumph. She did not envy Lucy, though she was an heir- 
ess. She saw a long perspective of new boys filing before her, and 
a handsome house and big playgrounds, and an orderly prosperous 
establishment. These were the things that were worth wishing for, 
Mary Russell thought. As for Bertie and his book, she shrugged 
her youthful shoulders at them. But she believed in herself, and 
in the little boys to come. “We shall have a struggle,” she re- 
peated, with a smile, “ as everybody has; but we shall get on.” She 
did not envy Lucy; but Lucy, perhaps, feeling the tables turned, 
was not so magnanimous. She was half vexed that the success of 
the Russells was so certain, and that here was no case for her to 
interfere. Alas, there was nothing for her to do but to wring her 
hands and stand helpless upon her mountain of money, while all 
those poor people whom Maiy knew struggled unaided, yet * ‘ got 
on ” at last, without any help of hers. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW THE RUSSELLS GOT ON. 

Lucy was permitted to take Jock to Hampstead by herself in 
Lady Randolph’s brougham next day. They had spent the morn- 
ing buying things for him, a school-boy dressing-case, a little desk, 
various books, and an umbrella— possessions which, up to this time, 
had been considered too valuable for the child, of whom nobody 
took any special care. He went to his new home with such an 
abundance of property as elated even Jock, though he was not 
given to trivialities. He had a watch too, which was more than 
property, which was a kind of companion, a demi-living thing to 
console him when he should be dull; and the child bore up with 
great heroism in face of the inevitable parting. Indeed, Jock re- 
garded the whole matter in an extremely practical common sense 
way. Lucy herself was disposed to be tearful during the long drive. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


169 


She held him close to her side, with her arm round him. “You 
will be good, Jock,” she said; “you will not be silly, and read 
books, but do your lessons and your sums, and everything. Prom- 
ise me that you will do your lessons, Jock.” 

Jock eyed his sister with that indulgent contempt which her want 
of discrimination often produced in him. “ Of course I will do my 
lessons,” he said; “ it is you who are silly. What else should 1 go 
away for? People must do lessons, it appears, before they grow 
up. If I didn’t mean to do them,” Jock said, with a full sense of 
his own power of deciding his fate, “I should stay at home— I 
shouldn’t go.” 

This silenced Lucy for the moment; but she was not so con- 
fident as he was. “ When you get dull, dear, and when there is 
nobody to talk to, and when you begin to feel lonely ” — the tears 
got into Lucy’s eyes again as she added line after line to this pict- 
ure—” then I am afraid, I am afraid you will begin to read, you 
will forget about everything else.” 

Jock drew himself away from her arm with a little offense; he 
looked at her severely. “Iam not just a baby — or a girl,” he said 
indignantly. Then he added, softening, “ And I don’t mean to be 
dull. I will tell Mary a great deal. It will do her good. You 
don’t mind so much about things when you have a great many 
other things in your head.” 

Once more this oracular utterance silenced his sister for the mo- 
ment; and then with natural inconsistency she resented his philoso- 
phy. “ I did not think you were so changeable. You are quite 
pleased to have Mary: you don’t care for leaving me. It is I that 
will be lonely, but you don’t mind a bit!” cried Lucy. Jock sighed 
with the impatience which his elders so often show when a woman 
is unreasonable. “ Don’t you want me to learn lessons then?” he 
said. 

But as this protest was uttered the carriage drew up before Mrs. 
Russell’s house, where all was expectation, though there was no 
peeping at windows or signs of excitement, as on the first visit. 
The drawing-room, which was like poor Mrs. Russell herself, limp 
and crumpled with the wear and tear of life rather than old, had 
been rubbed and dusted into such a measure of brightness as was 
possible. There was a pot of crocuses at the window, and tea upon 
the table; and the whole family were assembled to do honor to the 
visitor. There was nothing slipshod about Bertie now; his hair was 
carefully brushed, all the details of his appearance anxiously cared 
for. " For who can tell what may happen?” his mother said; “ we 


170 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


never know wliat an hour may bring forth;” and inspired by this 
pious sentiment she had counseled Bertie, nothing loath, to buy 
himself a new necktie. His whole life might be altered by the be- 
comingness of its tint and the success of its arrangement. Do not 
girls perpetually take these little precautions? and why not young 
men too? And they all stood up to receive Lucy, and regarded her 
with a kind of admiring adoration. “ Give Miss Trevor this chair 
— it is the most comfortable.” “Mother, a little more cream for 
Miss Trevor, and some cake.” They could not do too much for 
her. “ Katie is so happy that we have seen you; she writes to me 
this morning, that all will go well with us now we know her dear, 
dear Lucy.” “We have all known you by name so long,” Bertie 
added; “ it has been familiar in our mouths as household words. ” 
Lucy was abashed by all this homage; but how could she help being 
a little pleased too? Mary was the only one who did not chime in. 
“ I suppose Katie thinks you lucky,” she said; “ I don’t believe in 
luck myself.” And then Lucy made a little timid diversion, by 
asking about Mr. Bertie’s book. Was it finished yet? and would it 
soon be published? It is pleasant to be courted and applauded; 
but somewhat embarrassing when it goes too far. 

“ He has not got a publisher yet; is it not strange,” cried Mrs. 
Russell indignantly, “that, whatever genius you may have, or 
however beautifully you may write, it is all nothing, nothing at all 
without a publisher? He may be just an ignorant man, just a trades- 
man — not in the least able to understand; indeed, I hear that they 
are dreadful people, and cheat you on every side (and authors are a 
great deal too generous and too heedless, Miss Trevor, they allow 
themselves to be cheated); but however beautiful your book may 
be (and Bertie’s book is lovely), not one step can he move, not one 
thing can he do, till one of these common dreadful men — oh!” 
cried the indignant mother, “it is a disgrace to our age— it is a 
shame to the country — ” 

“ They are necessary evils,” said Bertie with magnanimity; “ we 
can’t do without them. You must not think it quite so bad, Miss 
Trevor, as my mother says. And after all one is independent of 
them as soon as one has got a hearing; ce n’esl que le premier pas — ” 

“ If Lady Randolph chose, she might easily get him an introduc- 
tion,” said Mrs. Russell; “ but it is out of sight out of mind, Miss 
Trevor. When you do not want anything, there are numbers of 
people ready to help you; but when you do— Lady Randolph 
might do it in a moment. It would not cost her anything; but she 
forgets; when you are out of the way everybody forgets.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 171 

“We must not say that, mother. It was she who brought us 
our celestial visitor.” 

“ That is true, that is true,” Mrs. Russell cried. 

Lucy did not know what to think or how to reply; she had never 
been called a celestial visitor before, and it was impossible not to be 
pleased by all this kindness and admiration. But then it was em- 
barrassing, and she saw Mary in the background laugh. She felt 
half disposed to laugh too, and then to cry; but that was because 
she was parting with Jock, who, little monster, did not shed a tear. 
Lucy dried her own eyes almost indignantly; but even on her side 
the effect of the parting was broken by the assiduous attentions 
with which she was surrounded. She. was so confused by having 
to take Bertie’s arm, and thus being conducted to the door, and 
put into the carriage, that she could not give Jock that last hug 
which she had intended. Mrs. Russell stood on the steps, and kissed 
her hand. “You will come soon again, come as often as you can. 
You will do us all good, as well as the little brother, ” Mrs. Russell 
said. And Bertie put his head into the carriage to tell her that he 
would come himself and bring her news of Jock. They both spoke 
and looked as if Lucy were indeed a celestial visitor, a beii ig of 
transcendent excellence and glory. She could not but be conscious 
of a bewildering sense of pleasure; but she was ashamed of so 
much devotion. She was not the least worthy of it. Could they 
be laughing at her? But why should any one be so cruel as to do 
that? 

For the moment, however, all Lucy’s personal excitement in the 
consciousness of being able to change the circumstances of the poor 
lady, who had at first sight appealed so strongly to her sympathies, 
was subdued, and turned into the humiliation and shame of an offi- 
cious person who has been offering unnecessary aid. She shrunk back 
into herself with a hot blush. Had she, perhaps, wanted to appear 
as a great benefactor in the eyes of the Russells? was it pride rather 
than pity? Lucy, though she had so little experience, was wise 
enough to know that undesired help is an insult, a thing that every- 
body resents. She was deeply disappointed and ashamed, not know- 
ing how to excuse herself for her rash impulse of liberality, liberal- 
ity which these high-spirited and hopeful people would most likely 
never have forgiven her for thinking of. She locked away her 
father’s memoranda again in the secret drawer. 

“ Oh, papa! papa!” she said to herself, “ how could you think it 
would be so easy?” 

He had thought money was everything, but it was not what he 


172 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


thought. Lucy was glad that she had not written to Mr. Chervil 
about it as she had intended, for most likely he would have laughed 
at her, or perhaps been angry. Evidently the only thing for her to 
do was to “ read,” as Lady Randolph advised her, and try to learn 
German, and keep as quiet as possible. It was dull, very dull, with- 
out Jock, but Lucy was of a patient disposition, and reconciled her- 
self gradually to her life. 

On the whole, however, this life was a life full of pleasantness 
to which the most exacting young person might easily have recon- 
ciled herself. Lady Randolph was very kind — indeed, as time went 
on, she got to like Lucy very sincerely, appreciating the good quali- 
ties of a girl who brought so much into the establishment and took 
so little out, who gave no trouble at all, as the servants said, rather 
despising her for it. But Lady Randolph did not despise her. She 
knew the value of a companion who was always contented, and as- 
pired after no forbidden pleasures of society, and did not so much 
as understand the A B C of flirting. Such a girl was of rare occur- 
rence in the world, or, at least, so persons of experience, accus- 
tomed to think the worst of all classes of their fellow-creatures, 
said. A girl who was always willing to do what she was told, and 
who set up no will of her own, and had no confidential visitor, ex- 
cept Mr. Chervil, who was one of her legal guardians, was a charge 
with whom any chaperon might be pleased; provided all went as 
well next year, when Lucy came out; but Lady Randolph piously 
reflected that no one could tell what might happen before that. 
Lucy excited no strong feeling : there was little in her (except her fort- 
une) to take hold of the imagination; but her quiet presence was 
always soothing and pleasant. Lady Randolph professed to go lit- 
tle into society that season, “ saving herself up,” as she said, for 
the next, when it would be her more arduous duty to take Lucy 
out. But though she did not go out much, that did not prevent her 
from enjoying a great many dinner-parties, and even occasionally 
* looking in ” upon some dear duchess’s ball; and Lucy spent many 
quiet evenings at home, in which her chief amusement was to hear 
the carriages of the people who were enjoying themselves roll up 
and down the street, and in wondering how she would like it next 
year, when she would be enjoying herself too. She did not at all 
dislike these quiet evenings, and, on the whole, her life passed very 
pleasantly as the spring grew into summer, and the season came to 
its prime. She rode in the morning, sometimes in the park, when 
Lady Randolph could find suitable companions for her, and often 
going as far as Hampstead, where Mary Russell looked out upon 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


173 


lier from the school-room window with cheerful friendliness; and 
Bertie, not very sure of his skill, came out to put her on her horse 
when she was ready to go, and bit his young mustache with envy 
and anger against fate, which had denied him all such indulgences. 
Bertie, however, was buoyed up by a great confidence; his book 
was going through the press; he had got the opening he wanted; 
and presently, presently! he said to himself, his time of humiliation 
would be over. Lucy had no idea of the effect of her visits upon 
the household. The little pupils, who were not very answerable to 
Mary’s rule, hearing it often called in question, ran to the window 
when they heard the sound of the horses’ feet, and they too looked 
with envy upon little Jock, who now had a pony, and frequently 
went out with his sister. The little boys looked after Jock, some 
with admiring eyes, while others scowled at his unusual privileges. 

“ Why has that little beggar got a pony and us not?” the urchins 
would say indignantly; and Mrs. Russell was not, with all her re- 
finement, much better than the boy who said this, who was the son 
of the grocer, taken on reciprocal terms, and whose presence was 
felt to be a humiliation to the establishment. Mrs. Russell never 
saw Lucy ride away without drying her eyes. 

“ To think my girls should be toiling while old Trevor’s daugh- 
ter — ” She looked out eagerly for Lucy’s coming, but this was the 
unfailing sentiment with which she greeted her. “The ways of 
Providence are inscrutable, ” the poor lady said, “when I remem- 
ber her mother, who was nothing but nursery-governess at the 
Brown-Joneses’, an old maid! when we used to call in mamma’s car- 
riage.” 

“ If you were so much better off than her mother, she has a right 
to be better off than we are; it is only justice and fair play,” said 

Mary. 

“ Oh, child! child! hold your tongue, what can you know about 
it?” her mother said, with red eyes, while Bertie gnawed his mus- 
tache. 

The young man stood and looked after Lucy, waiting to wave 
his hand to her as she turned the corner. She looked very well on 
horseback. If he had not felt that indignant envy of her, that sense 
that a trumpery bit of a girl had no right to be so much better off 
than he, he would have almost admired Lucy as she rode away. 
She was the representative of so many things that he did admire; 
wealth, luxurious ease, an undeniable superiority to all care. That 
she should be set up on that pinnacle, high enough to impress the 
whole world with her greatness, while he, clever, and handsome, 


174 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


and well born, attracted attention from nobody, was one of those 
things which are so incredible in their inappropriateness as to fill 
the less fortunate with indignant astonishment; but presently, pres- 
ently! the young man said to himself. Meantime he tvas very ir- 
regular in giving the little boys their Latin. The proofs took up a 
great deal of his time, and it was scarcely to be expected that a 
young author, on the verge of success and fame, could be as par- 
ticular, in respect to hours, as a nameless pedagogue. Mrs. Russell 
fully felt the force of this argument. She did not see how Bertie 
could be expected to give himself up to the children every day. 
The Latin lessons came down to three times, then twice a week, 
and it was never quite certain when it might suit Mr. Russell to 
give them. “ They shall have another half hour with me at their 
music, or, Mary, give them a little more geography; geography is 
very important, of far more consequence, at their age, than Latin, ’ ’ 
the head of the establishment would say; and though the sight of 
Miss Trevor arriving on her fine horse, with her groom behind her, 
had a great effect upon the neighborhood, and the parents of the 
day-scholars were pleased to think that their little boys were at the 
same school as this fine young lady’s brother, yet after awhile 
there were remonstrances from these commonplace people. The 
boys, they complained, did not ' ‘ get on.” “ What do they mean by 
getting on? we are not bound to furnish intellects to our pupils,” 
Mrs. Russell said, assuming something of the same imperiousness 
which answered with Mrs. Stone; but, alas! it did not answer at 
Hampstead, and but for the hope of that book which was coming 
out directly, the poor lady would have seen a very dismal prospect 
before her. But the book was to make amends for everything, it 
was to bring both money and peace. 

” There is another boy gone,” said little Jock. “ I’m very glad, 
he was one that laughed when you talked of anything. I told him 
about Macbeth, and he laughed. He’s gone, that fellow; and 
Shuckwood’s going — ” 

“ They seem all to be going,” said Lucy, alarmed. 

“ Oh, no, you know, there’s me. I’m the sheet-anchor, they say; 
but what is a sheet-anchor? She is often crying now,” said' Jock; 
“ I can’t tell why. It can’t be because of the fellows leaving. They 
are a set of little — cads.” 

‘‘Jock, where did you learn such words? you never spoke like 
that before.” 

“ Oh, it is being with those fellows,” said Jock. " If I were big- 
ger I’d lick half of them; but I couldn’t lick half of them,” he add- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


175 


ed, reflectively, “ for there’s only five now, and when Shuckwood 
is gone, and the one with the red hair, there will be three. But 
then one is me! there will only be two others left. You know> 
Lucy, Russell, the man himself, Mary’s brother, has made a book, 
and it’s all in print. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know. I hope he will make some money by it, and 
make poor Mrs. Russell more happy.” 

“ Money!” This was an idea Jock could not fathom; he pon- 
dered it for a time, but did not arrive at any clear comprehension 
of it. “ Will he go and knock at all the doors, and sell it like — the 
milkman?” asked the child, with much doubt in his tone. The 
milkman was striding cheerfully along with his pails, uttering a 
mysterious but friendly howl at every door, and furnishing Jock 
with the simile. He thought the milkman a very interesting person, 
but he did not realize Bertie Russell in the same trade. “ I don’t 
think he would do it,” Jock said confidentially; “ and if it was only 
one book, it would not be much good. I should like to be a ped- 
dler with a heap of books; then you could read the rest, and sell 
them when you had finished them. But, Lucy,” cried the child, 
“ what I would like best of all would be to ride on, and on, and on, 
like this, and never stop, except at night, to lie on the grass, and 
tell stories, like that book about the knight and the squire, and the 
manciple. What is a manciple?” Jock asked, suddenly impressed 
by the charms of the unknown word. 

“ I can’t tell in the least, I never heard of it, Jock. Doesn’t it 
vex poor Mrs. Russell when the boys go?” 

“ When the fellows, leave? oh, I don’t know. I tell you they’re 
not much of fellows; I don’t see why she should care,” said the 
little ignoramus serenely. “ I wish they were all gone, then Mary 
would have time to improve her mind.” 

“ Poor Mary! has she so much to do?” 

“ She is always having the fellows for something. When we have 
not Latin we have geography. And we don’t often have Latin. 
Russell lie’s busy, or he’s got a headache. The fellows say — ” 

“What little gossips! Tell me what Latin you have learned, 
Jock.” 

“ Oh, nothing at all. Penn-a, penna-ah — or perhaps it’s penn-ah 
— penn-a, I never can remember. It is far easier just to say pen, 
as you do, Lucy. And then we have counting; two times three is 
six, three times three — I’ll tell you that another time; the pony 
jumps about when I try to do arithmetic in my head.” 

“ But they are always very good to you, Jpck? you are happy 


176 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


there?” This was the burden of all their talks, the constantly-reeur- 
ring chorus. 

This time Jock, who usually said, “ Oh, yes,” with indifference 
to the question, laughed, which was rare with him. 

“She says I am always to ^ay Mr. Bertie is very kind,” says 
Jock. “That’s Russell, you know: the fellows all call him Rus- 
sell. She says, when you ask, I am to say he takes great pains with 
me.” 

Lucy was perplexed, but it was not right to show her perplexity, 
she thought. 

“ And does he?” she said. 

“ I don’t know what it means, he never says anything at all. Do 
you think, if w T e were to ride long enough, we could ride, ride, 
right into the sun, Lucy? there where it touches the heath — look! 
The sky must touch somewhere, if we could only ride as far.” 

“ Let us try,” said Lucy. 

Jock’s revelations w~ere very unsatisfactory. It was just as sensi- 
ble, she thought to pursue the sunshine, and follow the point where 
the sky must touch, as to get any light thrown upon the one point 
which she was anxious to investigate. Lucy’s mind had been greatly 
exercised upon this subject. It was impossible to mistake the signs 
of growing poverty and squalor in the house, and she, who felt that 
she had in her hand the power of turning anxiety and trouble into 
ease, was greatly disturbed, not knowing what to do. 

Mrs. Russell’s eyes were generally red now; but then they were 
weak, she said; and the house got to look more and more untidy. 
It was a begrimed little maid who opened the door, and the red- 
haired boy was gone, and the one who squinted, and the little fel- 
low with the curls. Lucy went in with her brother, when they had 
finished their ride, and was met by the mistress of the house, all 
tremulous, clasping and unclasping her hands, with a nervous smile. 

“You must rest a little, Miss Trevor,” she said, “after your 
long ride, and take something; won’t you take something? I have 
made a little space in the drawing-room, ’ ’ she added, seeing, with 
the quick instinct of the unfortunate, that Lucy’s eye had been 
caught by the big vacancy in the room, which had never been too 
full of furniture; “ my poor piano, it was too big, much too big. I 
did not like to part with it, it was a relic of the days when— my 
rooms were not so small,” she said, with a pretense at a smile. 
“ But you will be glad to hear, Miss Trevor, we have heard of a 
much better house, when— I mean as soon as— we are quite sure 
about the book,” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


177 


“ It will not be long now?” said Lucy. “ Mr. Bertie told me the 
printing was very nearly done.” 

“ No, it will not be long. We might take it now, for that mat- 
ter, for I don’t entertain any doubt on the subject. But Bertie is 
always so modest. Bertie insists that we must make quite sure. 
You see, Miss Trevor, a work like his, a work of imagination, sue- 
ceeds at once, if it is going to succeed,” she added, with a little 
laugh. “ Other kinds of books may take a long time to gain the pub- 
lic ear, but that— one knows directly. So I say to Bertie, we really 
might venture. It is just round the corner, Miss Trevor, a much 
larger, handsomer house. But, on the other hand, this is a long 
way from the center of everything. It might be better to move into 
Mayfair, or even Belgravia. He will want to be nearer the world. 
So, on the whole, we think it best to wait a little; and it does not 
do to move in the season, everything is so dear. ’ ’ 

“And the little boys?” said Lucy. Her mind was bewildered 
by the contrast between what she was hearing and the visible signs 
of misery around. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Russell, “as for Jock, you must not trouble 
yourself in the least. We are quite fond of him, he is such a little 
original. And Mary is very independent-minded; she will never 
take anything from her brother, though a better brother never ex- 
isted! Mary will want something to occupy her, and so long as I 
have a roof over my head, little Jock shall never w r ant a home. 
You may be quite easy on that point. I am telling Miss Trevor, 
Mary, that we are thinking of removing, ’ ’ she said, as her daughter 
came in. 

Mary did not look in high spirits. 

“ Are you, mamma? I should not mind the house, if other things 
were comfortable,” Mary said. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had 
been weeping, and she avoided Lucy’s look. 

“ That is because some of the little boys are going aw^ay,” said 
Mrs. Russell nervously. “Mary is always so anxious. We shall 
be glad to rid of them, my love, when Bertie’s book is out.” 

Mary did not make any reply. She gave her shoulders an imper- 
ceptible shrug; and what between the daughter’s unresponsiveness 
and the mother’s tearful and restless profusion of words, Lucy did 
not know what to say. When she went out, Bertie appeared with 
his hat on, and a packet of papers in his hand, and walked by her 
as she rode slowly along the steep little street. “ These are the last 
of the proofs,” he said to her, holding them up. “I am going to 


178 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 


take them myself for luck. I hope you will think of me kindly. 
Miss Trevor, and wish me well.” 

“ Indeed, I will. I wish it may be— the greatest success that ever 
was.” 

“ Thanks; that should bring me good fortune. I want you to do 
me a favor too. Let me give it all the better chance by putting 
your happy name upon it. I am sure it is a happy name, a lucky 
name, bringing good,” he added fervently, “ to all who invoke it.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Russell,” said Lucy, troubled, “ I do not know 
what you mean.” 

“ I want,” he said, “ to dedicate it to you.” 

“ To me!” Lucy’s simple countenance grew crimson. She did 
not quite understand the half pleasure, half repugnance that seemed 
all at once to flood her veins to overflowing. The color rushed to 
her face. She was flattered; what girl would have been otherwise? 
But she was more embarrassed than flattered. “ Oh, no, Mr. Rus- 
sell, please not. It is too much. I have no right to such a com- 
pliment.” 

“ Then I don’t know who has,” he said. “ You sought us out 
when we were very low, and gave us courage. That was the thing 
we wanted most.,. My mother is not encouraging, Miss Trevor. 
She is very good; but she is so anxious — so easily cast down.” 

“ She is in very great hopes now, Mr. Russell.” 

* Oh, yes; poor mother — too great. I don’t know what she 
thinks is coming. A fortune — a king’s ransom. And she will be 
disappointed. I feel sure she will be disappointed — even if I suc- 
ceed. I shall have to think of getting connections, forming friends, 
helping myself on in the world, instead of muddling always here. ’ ’ 

Then there was a moment of silence, and the sound of the 
horse’s hoofs on the stones came in, ringing in Lucy’s ears. And 
these words raised up echoes of their own. Lucy’s young soul got 
perplexed among them. But she said nothing, and after a moment 
he went on. 

“ Of course I will help them; but I must think of what is to be 
done next, and I must be in a place where I can see people — not 
out here. You are so reasonable, you will understand me, Miss 
Trevor. It is hard to be living among people who do not under- 
stand. I will bring you one of the first copies, if you will let me — 
the very first, if I have my way,” he said, looking up at her with a 
glow on his face. As she sat on her horse, swaying a little with 
the movement, she looked the most desirable thing in all the world 
■to Bertie Russell, To think a girl the best thing you could become 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS 1ST ENGLAND. 


179 


possessed of, the most valuable and precious, the highest prize to be 
aspired to, the creature who can bestow everything you most wish 
for — is not that being in love with her? If so, Bertie Russell was 
in love; and he looked at her as if he were so. Lucy’s cheek was 
a little flushed with surprise, with the confusion of her thoughts, 
and he interpreted this so as to chime in with the excitement he had 
himself given way to. It was a genuine excitement. Heavens! if 
he could but win that girl to be his! what more would there be to 
wish for? He put out his hand and gently touched and stroked her 
horse’s neck. This meant the most shy caress to herself, and Lucy 
felt it so, with a thrill of alarm she could not tell why. 

“Iam afraid I must go on now,” she said, feeling a blush come 
over her face again; and he took off his hat, and stood watching as 
she quickened her pace along the road, calling after her, 4 4 1 may 
come then and bring the first copy?” His heart jumped up within 
him as he saw the color on Lucy’s face. Could she, in her turn, a 
simple girl not used to much attention; have fallen in love? If so, 
there would be nothing strange in that. A fine young fellow — a 
young man of genius about to blaze upon the world. Nothing 
could be more natural; but the idea made Bertie’s heart beat. It 
"would be the most fortunate — the most desirable of all things. It 
opened up a perfect heaven of hope and blessedness before hig feet. 

As for Lucy, she rode home with her heart quaking and trembling 
and full of many thoughts. She did not entertain any doubt of the 
success of the book, any more than the author of it did, or his mother. 
But what she had heard from both sides opened Lucy’s eyes. Poor 
Mrs. Russell! what wild fancy possessed her, making her so fever- 
ishly confident in the midst of all those signs of trouble? Youth is 
intolerant, yet Lucy was reasonable. She saw some excuse for Ber- 
tie too. And now her duty seemed to her very clear. After all her 
vicissitudes of feeling, she had come back to the starting-point. 
This made her heart beat, not any thought of the handsome young 
author. She would have to tell Mrs. Russell herself of what she 
was about to do. It -would be a difficult mission, Lucy thought to 
herself, with something of a panic; yet it must be done. And when 
she thought of the house over which such a cloud of trouble and 
anxiety and approaching ruin seemed to hang, and of Mrs. Rus- 
sell’s excitement, and Mary’s pale cheeks, her heart smote her for 
delaying. She must not allow her guardian to hold her hand, or 
her own timid spirit to shrink from her work. Would it not be 
better to have it done before the moment came when this poor 
woman could be undeceived? While she rode back through the 


180 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


suburban roads, Bertie, subduing his pride, took the aid of an omni- 
bus, and made his way to the publisher’s — his head in the air, his 
mind' full of ecstatic visions. He composed a hundred dedications 
as he rolled and rumbled along, smiling to himself at the idea of 
the author of “ Imogen ” being seen on an omnibus. “ Why not?” 
he asked himself. A man of genius, a future lord of society and 
the age, may go where he will without derogating from his dig- 
nity. If all went well, if all went as every indication proved it to 
be going, other vehicles than omnibuses were waiting for Bertie, 
golden chariots, cars of triumph. His present humility was a 
pleasantry at which he could not choose but smile. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE DEDICATION. 

A very short time after this Lucy received the parcel of books 
which had been promised her. The season was growing to its 
height, and no time had been lost in putting the three volumes into 
the flimsy cloth binding which places the English novel on a plat- 
form of respectability, elevated far above its contemporary of other 
nations. The author did not bring her the first copy with his own 
hands, as he had vowed to do. Bertie had been afraid — he had 
done a thing which was perhaps too daring, and he did not venture 
to appear in his own person, to meet, perhaps, the storm of Lady 
Randolph’s displeasure, perhaps the alarmed reproachfulness of 
Lucy heiself. He sent it instead, and awaited the reply with a 
heart which could scarcely beat higher with any personal excite- 
ment than it did with the tumult of hope and fear with which he 
awaited the issue of his first publication. It seemed to the inex- 
perienced young fellow that the issues of life and death were in it, 
and that his fate would be fixed one way or another, and that with- 
out remedy. His doubt of Lucy’s reception of his offering, there- 
fore, added but a slight element the more to a tumult of feeling 
already almost too great to be controlled. He brought it himself to 
the door, but would not go in; leaving a message that the parcel 
was to be given to Miss Trevor at once. Lady Randolph and she, 
for a wonder, were dining alone, and the parcel was undone when 
the dessert was placed on the table, and lay there in a very fashion- 
ably artistic binding, of no particular color, with “Imogen” 
scrawled in large uneven letters on the side. The ladies both took 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


181 


it up with great interest. A new book, though so many of the 
community have ceased to regard it as anything but a bore, is still 
interesting more or less to every little feminine circle that knows 
the author. Lady Randolph was going out to a succession of par- 
ties after dinner, and among them to a great intellectual gathering, 
where all thfe wits were to be assembled. ‘ ‘ I must tell Mrs. Mon- 
tagu about it,” she said; “ I must speak to everybody about it. It 
is very attentive of the young man to send it at once. We must do 
what we can for him, Lucy. We must ask for it at all the libra- 
ries, and tell everybody to ask for it, and I will speak to the critics. 
I will speak to Cecilia,” she said, taking up the first volume. But 
after a momentary interval, a change came over Lady Randolph’s 
face. She uttered the invariable English monosyllable “ Oh!” in 
startled and troubled tones; then turned upon her companion 
hastily : 

“ Did you know of this, Lucy? My dear, my dear, how wrong! 
how imprudent! Why did not you mention it to me?” 

Lucy was eating her strawberries very quietly, looking with a 
pleased expectation at the two other volumes of the book. It seemed 
to her a fine thing to be an author, to have actually written all that; 
and she was a little proud in her own person of knowing all about 
him, and felt that she would now have something to talk about 
when Lady Randolph’s visitors tried her, as they were in the habit 
of doing, on divers subjects. When they talked to her about Lady 
Mary’s small and early party, or the duchess’s great assembly, Lucy 
had often found it embarrassing to repeat her humble confessions 
of ignorance to one after another, and to admit that she had not 
been there or there; and did not understand the allusions which 
were being made; and she did not know enough about music to 
speak of the opera, nor about pictures to prattle about the Exhibi- 
tions, as she heard other girls do; but now she would have some- 
thing to say. “ Have you seen the new novel? It is written by a 
gentleman .we know.” With that to talk about, Lucy felt that she 
might even take the initiative and begin the conversation with any 
one who did not look very clever and alarming, and this gave her a 
serene satisfaction. Also she was to spend the evening all by her- 
self, and a new story was a nice companion. She was aroused from 
these agreeable thoughts by that “Oh-h!” uttered upon two or 
three notes by Lady Randolph, and looked up to see her friend’s 
countenance entirely changed, severe as she had never seen it before. 
“Did you know of this? Why did you not mention it tome?” 
Lady Randolph said. She was holding out the book for Lucy’s in- 


182 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


spection, and the girl looked at it with instinctive alarm, yet all the 
calm of innocence. This was what she read: 

TO THE ANGEL OF HOPE, 

LUCY, 

TO WnOSE NAME IN REVERENCE * 

I PREFIX NO TITLE. 

THIS FIRST EFFORT OF A MIND 
WHICH HER GENTLE ENCOURAGEMENT 
HAS INSPIRED WITH CONFIDENCE 
IS INSCRIBED. 

Lucy’s eyes grew round with amazement, her lips dropped apart 
with consternation. She looked from the book to Lady Randolph, 
and then to the book again. After a moment, the color rushed to 
her face. “Lucy! Oh, you do not suppose he means me?” she 
said aghast. 

“ Whom could he mean else? Did you know anything about it? 
Lucy, don’t let me think I am deceived in you,” Lady Randolph 
said, with great vehemence. She. was more excited than seemed 
necessary; but then, no doubt, she had a very serious sense of re- 
sponsibility, in regard to a ward so precious. 

“ I am very sorry,” said Lucy; “ I suppose I do know; he said 
he would dedicate the book to me, and I said, oh, no, don’t do 
that; but then we spoke of something else, and I thought of it no 
more. ’ ’ 

After awhile Lady Randolph found herself capable of smiling, 
when she was fully convinced of the girl’s innocence. “ What a 
good thing you are not out , my dear. I can’t be sufficiently thank- 
ful you are not out. You see by this, Lucy, what a dangerous 
thing it is to be kind to anybody. You, with your prospects,! can 
not be sufficiently careful. Have you ever thought that you are 
different from other girls? that there are reasons why I must take a 
great deal more care of you — I, who think girls ought always to be 
taken care of?” Lady Randolph said. 

“ I know that I have a great deal of .money,” said Lucy quietly. 
“ I suppose, Lady Randolph, that is what you mean?” 

“My dear, if it were only in novels, you must have read that 
girls who have great fortunes are run after by all sorts of unworthy 
people; and innocent girls like you are apt to be deceived when peo- 
ple are civil. Lucy, my love, this is a great deal too broad a com- 
pliment,” said Lady Randolph, very solemnly, laying her hand 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


183 


upon the book; “ you must not be taken in. No man who really 
cared for you, no nice man, would have held you up to the notice 
of society in this way.” 

“ Cared for me?” said Lucy, “ but I never supposed he did that. 
Why should he care for me?” 

Lady Randolph looked at her charge with great perplexity of 
mind. Was this innocence, or was such simplicity credible? Had 
the girl never heard of fortune-hunters? All girls in society were 
aware of the dangers which attended an heiress; but Lucy had not 
been brought up in society. She did not know what to think; 
finally, however, she determined that it was better, if they did not 
already exist there, to put no such ideas into the head of her 
ingenue. For Lady Randolph, who had no clew to the graver cares 
which occupied Lucy’s mind, had not thought of her, as yet, in 
any character except that of ingenue. She stopped herself in the 
half-completed senl ence which she had begun before this reflection 
came to her aid. “ He must want you to think he cares — it is a 
beginning of — ” Here she stopped, and laughed uneasily. ” No, 
no, I dare say I am wrong. It is my over-anxiety. Let us say it is 
only an indiscretion. Young men are always doing things which 
are gauche and inappropriate. And you have so much good sense, 
Lucy — Lady Randolph got up and came behind Lucy’s chair, 
and gave her a hasty kiss. “ I have perfect confidence in your 
good sense. You will not let your head be turned by fine words, 
as so many girls do?” 

Lucy looked up with surprise at the haste and almost agitated 
impulse of her careful guardian. Lady Randolph was dressed for 
her parties in black velvet and lace, with the riviere of diamonds 
which Lucy admired. She was a stately personage, imposing to 
behold, and yet, as she stood, somewhat excited, anxious, and de- 
precating by the side of the little fair-haired girl in her black frock, 
Lucy felt a conviction of her own superior importance which was 
painful and humiliating to her. The uneasy sparkle in the eye, the 
glance of anxiety in the face of the lady; who, in every natural 
point of view, was so much above herself, made her unhappy. How 
much money can do! Was it this, and this only which disturbed the 
balance between them, and made Lady Randolph’s profession of 
faith in her sound as apologetic? She rose to follow upstairs with a 
confused sensation of pain. She had been trained, indeed, to think 
her fortune the chief thing in the world, but not in this point of view. 
The drawing-room was dim and cool, the windows all open, the 
night air blowing in over the boxes of mignonette and geranium in 


184 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


the balconies. The sounds from without came softened through the 
soft air, but yet furnished a distant hum of life, an intimation of the 
great world around, the mass of human cares and troubles and en- 
joyments which were in full career. Lady Randolph placed Lucy 
in her own chair by the little table with the reading-lamp, and gave 
her Bertie’s book, with a smile. “No, I don’t think it will turn 
your head,’’ she said; “ read it, my love, and you will tell me to- 
morrow what you think of it. How I wish I could take you with 
me! and how much more I shall enjoy going out next year when 
you are able to go with me, Lucy!” She gave her another kiss, 
with a little nervous enthusiasm, and left the girl seated there in 
the silence with many wonderings in her mind. Lucy sat and lis- 
tened with the novel in her hand while the carriage came to the 
door, and Lady Randolph drove away. Other carriages passed, drew 
up in the street below, took up and set down other line people going 
here and there into the sparkling crowds of society. Many an even- 
ing before, Lucy had stolen behind the curtain to watch them with a 
country-girl’s curiosity, pleased even to see the billowing train visi- 
ble through a carriage- window, which betrayed the line evening toi- 
lettes within. But this evening she did not move from her chair. 
There was so little light in the room that the windows mysteriously 
veiled in filmy drapery added something from the dim skies out- 
side to the twilight within. A shaded lamp stood in the back 
drawing-room, making one spot of brightness on a table. Her 
reading-lamp, with its green shade, condensed all the light 
it gave upon her hand with the book in it, resting upon her 
knee. But her face was in the dimness, and so were her 
thoughts. She was not so angry with Bertie as Lady Randolph had 
been for his dedication. It was intended to be kind — what could it 
be but kind? Perhaps he had divined the attitude which, in inten- 
tion at least, she had taken toward his family. Lucy’s thoughts 
had never turned the way of love-making. She had not as yet en- 
countered any one who had touched her youthful fancy. It was no 
virtue on her part; she sat like one on the edge of the stream mus- 
ing before she put her foot into the boat which might lead her — 
whither? But, in the meantime, the thoughts in her heart were all 
serious. Was she not pausing too long, lingering unduly upon the 
margin of her life— not doing the work which had been put into her 
hands to do? 

Lucy had got so deep in these thoughts that she did not hear the 
noise and jar with which a hansom cab came to the door; or, at 
least, hearing it, paid no attention; for it is very difficult to dis* 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


185 


criminate in a street whether a carriage is stopping at number ten 
or number eleven, and hansom cabs were not commonly heard at 
Lady Randolph’s at night. Even the movement in the house did 
not rouse her; she had not the ease of a child in the family, though 
she was of so much importance in the house. She sat quite still, 
feeling by turns a refreshing breath steal over her from the win- 
dows, watching the flutter of the curtains, and the glimmer of the 
stars, which she could see through them, through the upper panes 
of the long windows; and vaguely amused by the suggestion fur- 
nished to her mind by the passing carriages, the consciousness of 
society behind. She was so well entertained by this, and by her 
own thoughts, which were many, that she had scarcely opened the 
book. She held it in her hand; she had looked again at the dedica- 
tion, feeling half flattered, half annoyed, and had read a page or 
two. Then, more interested, as yet, in her own story, or in this 
pause, so full of meaning and suggestion, before it began, had 
closed again upon her fingers the new novel. Could anything in it 
be so wonderful as her own position, so full of that vague question 
which, in Lucy’s mind, was more a state than a query? She dallied 
with the book, feeling herself a more present and a more important 
heroine than any imaginary Imogen. 

Lucy did not even hear the door open. It was opened very 
quietly far away in the dimness, at the other end of the room, and 
the new arrival stood looking in for at least a minute before he 
could make out whether any one was there. There was no light to 
show his own figure in the dark doorway, and he saw nothing ex- 
cept the lamp in the first room and the smaller one with its green 
shade, by which Lucy in her black dress was almost invisible. He 
paused for a minute, for he had been told that there was some one 
there. Then, with a bold step, he came in and closed the door audi- 
bly behind him. “ Nobody, by Jove!” he said, an asseveration 
quite unnecessary; then threw himself into a chair which stood in 
front of the table on which was the larger lamp. The sensation 
with which Lucy woke up to the discovery that a stranger, a gentle- 
man ! had come into the room, not seeing her, any more than till 
the moment when he became audible she had seen him, was one of 
the most extraordinary she had ever experienced. She raised herself 
bolt upright in her chair, half in alarm; but Lady Randolph’s 
chairs, it need scarcely be said, did not creak, and Lucy’s dress was 
soft, with no rustle in it. “Nobody, by Jove!” the individual 
said; and nothing contradicted him. It seemed to Lucy that she 
instantly heard her own breathing, the beating of her watch, her 


186 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

foot upon the footstool, as she seemed to hear in exaggerated round- 
ness and largeness of sound the thud with which he threw himself 
into that chair, the movement with which he drew it to the table, 
the grab he made across the table at a newspaper that lay there. 
“Well, here’s the news at all events,” the stranger said. Ashe 
stooped over the newspaper, his head came within the circle of the 
lamp. Lucy scarcely dared to turn hers to look at him. There was 
the outline of ahead, amass of hair, a large well-defined nose, a 
couple of large hands grasping the paper. Lucy’s first impulse was 
half, but only half alarm; but she was not at all nervous, and speed- 
ily reminded herself that it was very unlikely any dangerous or un - 
lawful stranger should be able thus to make his way past Robin- 
son, the butler, and George, the page, into Lady Randolph’s draw- 
ing-room. There could not be anything to fear in him; but who 
was he, and how came he there? And what was Lucy to do? She 
sat as still as a mouse in Lady Randolph’s chair and watched. Was 
it quite honorable to watch a man who was not aware of your pres- 
ence? But then how to get away? Lucy did not know what to 
do. She felt more disposed to laugh than anything else, but dared 
not. Perhaps after awhile he would go away. She held her breath 
and sat as still as a mouse. A gentleman ! utterly unknown and 
appearing so suddenly in a feminine house — it was embarrassing; 
but certainly it was rather amusing too. 

The stranger was not a quiet gentleman, whatever else he might 
be. How he pushed his chair about! how he flung the paper from 
one side to another, turning it over with resounding hums and 
hems! How could any one be so noisy? Lucy, who was afraid to 
stir, watched him, ever more and more amused. At last he tossed 
the paper back upon the table. “News! not a scrap!” he said to 
himself, and suddenly throwing a large pair of arms over his head, 
gave such a yawn as shook the fragile London house. Did Lucy 
laugh? She feared that the smallest ghost of a giggle did burst from 
her in spite of herself. It seemed to have caught his ear. He sud- 
denly squared himself up, turned his chair round, and put on an 
aspect of listening. Lucy held her breath; he turned straight toward 
her and stared into the dimness. “ By Jove!” he said again, to him- 
self. The soft maze of curtains fluttered, the night air blew in. 
No doubt he thought it was these accidental sounds that had de- 
ceived him. But suspicion had evidently been roused in his mind. 
After a minute he rose, a large figure, making the house creak, and 
cautiously approached the window. He passed Lucy, who had 
shrunk back into her chair, and went beyond her to look out. One 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


187 


or two carriages were rolling along the street, and Lucy felt this 
was her opportunity, the way of retreat being now clear She got 
up softly, with the utmost precaution, while he stood with his back 
to her, then turned to flee. 

Alasl Lucy’s calculations failed her; her foot caught the footstool, 
her book fell out of her hand with a noise that sounded like an 
earthquake, the stranger turned upon her as quick as lighting; and 
there she stood, blushing, laughing, confused, prettier than Lucy 
Trevor had ever looked in her life before. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she cried; and he said, “by Jove!” 
taking out of his pockets the hands which had been thrust down to 
their depths. 

“ It is I who ought to beg your pardon,” he said. “Iam afraid 
I have frightened you. Robinson told me I should find — some one 
here; but the room seemed empty. I hope you will begin our ac- 
quaintance by giving me your forgiveness. I am Tom Randolph, 
the nephew of the house.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lucy, regaining her composure and serious- 
ness, “ and I am Lucy Trevor, whom Lady Randolph is so kind as 
to take care of. It is I who ought to apologize, for I saw you — I 
saw you directly; but I did not know what to do.” 

“ You must have thought it very alarming, a savage like myself 
coming in and taking possession. I am much obliged to you for 
taking it so quietly. My aunt is out, I hear. I wonder when she 
has you to bear her company, Miss Trevor, that now and then she 
can’t make up her mind to stay at home.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, but society has claims, ’ ’ said Lucy, repeating the words 
she had heard so often with matter-of-fact and quite believing sim- 
plicity. To her horror and surprise the new-comer replied with a 
laugh : 

“We have all heard that, and let us hope. Miss Trevor, that the 
votaries of society are rewarded for their devotions. You don’t 
share the cuUeV ’ he said. 

“I! 1 am not out, and besides I am in mourning, ” said Lucy, 
looking at her crape. 

“ I beg your pardon; won’t you take your seat again, and let me 
feel my sins forgiven? Did I interrupt your reading? A new novel 
is much more interesting than an old— or, let us say, a middle-aged 
savage. ’ ’ 

Sir Thomas Randolph saw Lucy look at him when he said this: 
already did she want to make sure that the savage w^as not more 
than middle-aged? He thought so, and he was satisfied, 


188 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 


“ It is not that I care for the novel; I had not begun it yet. It is 
written,” said Lucy, trying her n^w subject, “ by a— gentleman we 
know; but, perhaps, as you have just come home, you may want 
dinner, or something, Mr. — I mean Sir Thomas?” 

“You have heard of me, I see.” 

“ Oh, yes; Lady Randolph so often speaks of you; but I am not 
much used to people with titles,” Lucy said. 

“ Do you call mine a title? not much of that. We are common- 
ers, you know; and I hear that whenever there is anything very 
wicked wanted in a novel, it is always found in a baronet; that is 
hard upon us, Miss Trevor. I wonder if there is a wicked baronet 
in the novel you have got there.” 

“I have not read it yet; it is written,” said Lucy, hesitating, 
“ by a gentleman we know. Lady Randolph is going to speak to 
everybody about it, and we hope it will be very successful.” 

Lucy could not keep herself from showing a little consciousness. 
He took it up. and she was very much alarmed lest he should see 
the dedication. She had never thought it would affect her, yet 
here, already, she had quite entered into Lady Randolph’s feelings. 
Fortunately he did not see it, though he turned over the volume in 
his large hands. He was large, all over, as different as it was pos- 
sible to conceive from Bertie, who was slight and dainty, almost 
like a girl. Lucy was not sure that she had ever seen a man before 
so near, or spoken to one of this kind. He was so unlike the other 
people of her acquaintance that she could not help giving curious 
looks at him under the shade of the lamp. He did not keep still for 
a moment, but threw his. bigness about so that it filled the room, 
sometimes getting up and walking up and down, taking up the 
chairs as if they were toys. He was a creature of a new species. 
She did not feel toward him as Miranda did to Ferdinand, who 
was probably an elegant stripling of the Bertie kind, but she was 
interested in the new being, who was not beautiful; he was so un- 
like anything she had ever seen before. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

SIR TOM. 

The days that followed were full of this big person. Lucy found 
his company so pleasant that she lingered, to her own great con - 
sternation, talking to him, till Lady Randolph returned; no, not 
talking very much to him, but yet telling him various things about 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


189 


herself, which she was greatly surprised to recollect afterward, and 
hearing him talk, which he did with a frankness and freedom 
equally unusual to her. When she heard Lady Randolph’s brougham 
draw up at the door, Lucy fairly jumped from her chair in alarm 
and wonder. What would Lady Randolph say? would she be angry? 
A sentiment of honor alone kept her from running away; and her 
look of innocent panic greatly amused Sir Tom. 

“Are you afraid?” he said, with that great but harmonious 
laugh which softly shook the house. “Is she so hard upon you? 
Never mind, she is fond of me, though you would not think it, and 
there will be a general amnesty to-night.” 

“ Oh, I am not afraid,” Lucy said, with a smile. But she said 
to herself, what will Lady Randolph think? the dedication first, 
and now to sit up and chatter to a gentleman! But Lady Randolph’s 
voice had never been so soft, nor her countenance so genial. She 
was so glad to see ‘ * Tom ' that she saw everything in the most 
favorable light. At least this was the interpretation Lucy put upon 
her cloudless graciousness. 

“Don’t hurry away,” she said, “or Tom will think you are 
glad to escape now your post of entertainer is over;” and she kissed 
Lucy with a warm, natural tenderness which went to the girl’s 
heart. She went upstairs, indeed, altogether in a state of unusual 
and pleasant commotion. She had never met anybody in her life 
like Sir Tom. He told her of a hundred places he had been at, of 
his long journeys, and acquaintance with all sorts of things and 
people; bringing in the wide atmosphere of a big world into the 
four walls, which was all the sphere Lucy knew. How pleasant it 
was! It had stirred her altogether, with curiosity and interest, and 
amusement and admiration, yet with the amiable derision of a tidy, 
orderly girl for the man’s faculty of disarranging everything, 
which made the balance a little more even. He had seen every kind 
of wonder, but he could not sit down in a chair without ruffling up 
all its cover, and hooking on its ornaments to his buttons. This 
made her laugh, and disposed her to take care of Sir Tom, and pilot 
him to safe chairs, on which there were no antimacassars. She had 
felt perfectly at her ease with him, almost more than with Mr. 
Rushton, for instance, whom she had known at home; and the little 
agitation of his arrival, and the novelty of him generally, drove all 
her other ideas out of Lucy’s head. After she had gone to bed 
even, she could not but smile in the darkness to hear his big step 
coming upstairs, and his cheerful good night to his aunt, which 
sounded up and down the narrow London staircase, so that eveiy- 


190 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ ENGLAND. 


body in the house shared it. “ Good-night, Sir Tom,” Lucy said 
within herself and laughed. The house felt more safe, better taken 
care of, with this new-comer in it. It was enlivening to think that 
he would be there in the morning, with his cheery voice. “ Pro- 
vided he does not upset the house,” Lucy said to herself. She had 
not been aware that she had so much love of fun in her. As for 
Lady Randolph, she was glad to see Sir Tom. He was all she had 
to represent her family, and she was as fond of him as a mother. 
Perhaps the relationship of aunt made her accept his roving and 
lawlessness with more composure than a mother would have done, 
and they were the best friends in the world. When Lucy left the 
drawing-room, Lady Randolph gave her nephew a keen and anx- 
ious look; but it was not till some time after that the new inmate 
was talked of. Then it was Sir Tom himself who opened the sub- 
ject: 

“ That’s a jolly little girl you’ve got.” 

” Oh, Tom!” his aunt cried, throwing all her breath into that 
exclamation; “ I am so glad to hear you say so.” 

He laughed. “ Do you suppose I am thinking of ulterior steps?” 
he said; ‘ ‘ but I like her. She is a jolly little girl.” 

And Lady Randolph, too, went to bed very happy, thinking Sir 
Tom’s big ” good-night,” as it went booming up the staircase, as 
pleasant as any music. Her heart swelled as with the most generous 
of sentiments; she thought if she could but see the old Hall revived 
by new money, the rich new life-blood of gold untold, such as 
would soon be in Lucy’s possession, poured into the family veins, 
she thought she would die happy. And what could Lucy’s dearest 
friend desire better for her? Mrs. Russell, poor lady, thought the 
same thing of her son. 

And next day, and for some days after, the house was like a new 
place. He went and came, out to his clubs, to the world outside, 
and back again, bringing news, public and private, bringing the 
breath of the general existence, in a manner entirely novel to Lucy. 
She had heard a great many stories of contemporary life in Lady 
Randolph’s drawing-room before, scraps of politics, which she paid 
no attention to, and tales of this one and the other, whom she did 
not know or care for; but whether it was something in the person- 
ality of Sir Tom, or that he told these stories better, or that the 
larger life which he brought into the house harmonized them and 
gave them a human attraction, it would be hard to say; but it is 
certain that they assumed a totally different character to Lucy. 
Somehow they did not seem gossip from his lips. Lady Betsinda 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


191 


suggested scandal in every line of her eager old face; but who could 
call that gossip which fell from the bearded lips of the good-natured 
adventurer, the man who had friends everywhere, among American 
Indians and African savages, as well as in the clubs? It is impossi 
ble to tell what a difference he made in the house, his very step on 
the stair brought variety, change, a difference, a relief from monot- 
ony, to which no one could remain insensible. The river of life 
had flowed slowly, partially frost-bound by chills to come in Lady 
Randolph’s veins, and not loosed from the spring icicles in Lucy’s; 
but when this torrent of full existence, warm and mature, came in, 
the stream was at once in flood, neither partial age nor developing 
youth being beyond its influence. Lucy was so much amused, so 
occupied with the change in the house, that the Russells and their 
concerns faded from her recollection. “ Imogen ” was put away 
on a side-table; and she had never required to make use of that sub- 
ject for conversation: Have you seen the new novel? There was a 
much more easy one at hand: “ Do you know Sir Thomas?” was 
now the question with which she took the initiative; and Lucy 
found a power of language she had never dreamed of possessing, in 
describing his travels and the things he had brought home. Sir 
Thomas had shot a lion — actually a lion — and had brought back its 
magnificent skin as a trophy. She got a little pink tinge on her 
cheeks, which was very becoming, as she described it. This gave 
her quite a little succfa among Lady Randolph’s visitors, who had 
hitherto found her very elementary; and already there were jokes 
about Pygmalion and Galatea, and about the sunshine, which made 
buds open and birds sing. Lady Randolph, looking on watchfully, 
would have preferred that the spell had not worked quite so quickly. 
But as for Lucy she was delighted by her own awakening, and 
pleased to find herself enjoying everything, even the talk. The 
house was so much more cheerful now Sir Tom was in it. She put 
off her usual visit to Jock for a whole week. To be sure there were 
various reasons for that, for Lucy did not know how to meet Bertie 
Russell after the dedication, and felt that to speak of it, even to his 
mother, was difficult. What could she say? . It was very “ kind,” 
but then it was, as Lady Randolph said, “ too broad.” Lucy did 
not like to think of it. She did not know how to meet the young 
man who had called her an Angel of Hope, and addressed her, even 
in print, as Lucy; and yet when they met she would be obliged to 
say something to him. Her embarrassment on this point had been 
greatly increased by Ihe fact that Sir Tom had found the dedication 
out, and had “ made fun ” of it. He was mischievous, though Lucy 


192 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


did not like to think he was unkind. Sometimes he would refer to 
the Angel of Hope in a way which covered her with confusion, 
alarming her with a possibility of betrayal; but it was only to tease 
her, and she did not, on the whole, dislike Sir Tom’s teasing. On 
one of these occasions, however, she was so much frightened that 
she remonstrated. “ Please,” she said, “ do not tell any one it is 
me. Perhaps, after all, it is not me; Lucy is not an uncommon 
name. And oh, Sir Thomas, if you please, do not talk of it when 
any one is here.” 

“lam afraid it must be you,” Sir Thomas said, “ there could 
not be two with the same characteristics; but you may trust me, 
Miss Lucy, I will not tell, no, not for anything that might be offered 
me. Wild horses — ” 

‘‘You are laughing at me,” she said. 

“ Would you have me cry? But I should like to punch the young 
fellow’s head. He had no right to do it. It was like a cad to do 
it; even in gratitude, he ought not to have exposed you to anything 
that might be disagreeable; besides, Miss Lucy, it is taking a base 
advantage of other fellows who can not write books.” 

Lucy was not quite sure what he meant by this, but she replied 
very gravely, 

“ I am afraid it is the only thing he can do. Do not laugh, 
please, it is very serious. I am very anxious to know how it turns 
out.” 

Then you take a great deal of interest in him?” 

“ I take a great deal of interest in that. They all depend upon it; 
and also for other things. Do you think he will make much money 
by it, Sir Thomas?” 

“I have not an idea; the only thing I know about literature is 
that 1 was offered something if I would write my travels. I have 
been in a good many out-of-the-way places, you know, and then I 
am pretty well known; but, unfortunately, I could not, so that 
money got lost, more’s the pity.” 

“ It was a great pity,” said Lucy, with feeling. “ How strange 
it seems, you who can not w T rite are offered money for it, and he who 
can write is kept so uncertain! It seems always to be like that. 
There is myself, with a great deal too much money, and so many 
people with none at all.” 

Sir Thomas laughed; the frankness of the' heiress amused him be- 
yond measure. 

“ Have you a great deal too much money?” he said. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


193 


“ Yes, did you not know? But it will not be so much.” Lucy 
said, with an involuntary burst of confidence, “ after awhile.” 

This puzzled him quite as much as anything he could say puzzled 
her. He did not know what to make of it, for there was no jest, 
but perfect and candid gravity in Lucy’s tone. He thought it best, 
however, to take it as a mere girlish levity and threat of extrava- 
gance to come. 

“ Do you mean to make it go then?” he said. “Don’t! Take 
my advice; I have a good right to give it, for I have paid for my 
experience. Don’t throw your money away as I have done.” 

” Have you thrown it away? I am very sorry. I — wonder — ” 
Lucy looked at him doubtfully, almost wistfully. Was she going 
to offer him some of hers? he asked himself. He was at once 
amused and touched, and full of expectation as to what she would 
say next; but Lucy changed her tone. “ I will not throw it away,” 
she said, quietly. “ Papa directed me, before he died, what to do 
with it. It is a great responsibility;” and here she paused and 
looked at him once more. Was she going to confide some secret to 
him? Sir Thomas was very much puzzled, indeed, more than he 
remembered ever to have been puzzled by any girl. He was a man 
over thirty, a man of large experience, but this young creature was 
a novelty to him. 

“ I should like to see how you will spend your fortune,” he said. 

‘ * I shall watch what you do with it. Mine went before I took time 
to consider the responsibility. Marriage is not the only thing that 
one does in haste and repents at leisure. I am very sorry now, I 
can tell you, that I was such a fool when I was young.” 

“I — wonder — ’’Lucy said again, softly, to herself. She could 
not help longing to tell somebody her secret, somebody that would 
feel a little sympathy for her— why not this big, kind, genial 
stranger, who was quite unlike all the rest of her people? who 
would surely understand, she thought. But Sir Thomas did not in 
the least understand. He thought she would have liked to dve 
him some of her money, and, indeed, for his own part, he would 
not have had the slightest objection to accept the whole of it, as his 
aunt had planned and hoped; but a portion would be impossible. 
He laughed, looking at her, in his turn, with kindness in his amuse- 
ment. 

“ Are you meditating some benevolence?” he said. “ But, Miss 
Lucy, benevolence is a very doubtful virtue. You must reflect well, 
and take the advice of your business people. You must not be too 
ready to give away. You see, though I have not known you long, 


104 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


I am disposed to take upon me the tone of a mentor already, an 
uncle experienced and elderly, or something of that sort.” 

44 Indeed, that is just what I should like,” Lucy said, simply. 

This was a dreadful dash of cold water in his face. It is one 
thing to call yourself experienced and elderly, and quite another to 
he taken at your word. He laughed again, but this time at himself, 
and accepted the position with a curious sense of its inappropriate- 
ness which was all the more vivid because she did not seem to see it 
to be inappropriate at all. 

“ Well,” he said, “ that’s a bargain. When you want to do any- 
thing angelically silly, and throw away your money, you are to 
come and consult me.” 

“ Do you really mean it?” said Lucy, with most serious eyes. 

“ I really mean it, and there is my hand upon it,” he said. She 
put her hand into his with gentle confidence, and he held it for a 
moment, looking at the slender fingers. Lucy, as has been said, 
had, though she had no right to it, a pretty hand. “ What a little 
bit of a thing,” he said, “ to have so much to give away.” 

“Yes,” Lucy said, with a long breath that was scarcely a sigh, 
and without the vestige of a blush of embarrassment, “ it is a great 
responsibility.” She was as sincere and serious as if she had been 
an old woman, Sir Thomas felt, and he laughed and let the little 
hand drop. His fatherly flirtation, a mode which he had known to 
be very efficacious, had no more effect than if he had been a hun- 
dred. This failure tickled his sense of humor, far more than suc- 
cess would have pleased him otherwise. 

“ That girl is a little original,” he said, when he talked her over 
with Lady Randolph; but, meantime, it was very certain that they 
were the best of friends. 

They were seated at breakfast on Saturday morning, rather more 
than a week after his arrival. Lucy had been making up her mind 
that she could make no further excuse to herself, but must go to 
Hampstead that day, and was trying, as she drank her coffee, to 
compose little speeches fit for the occasion. Sir Thomas was half 
hidden behind the newspaper, and Lady Randolph cast a glance 
now and then, as she finished her breakfast, at the pages of a 
weekly review, supposed to be the most spirituel of its kind, the 
first in fashion and in force. 

“ Oh!” she cried, suddenly. “ Lucy, here is something interest- 
ing; here is a notice of ‘Imogen.’ You must take it out to the 
Russells; for once Cecilia has been as good as her word.” Lucy 
was in the midst of a carefully turned sentence by which she meant 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


195 


to assure Mrs. Russell that she felt Bertie’s “ kindness. ” She looked 
up with lively interest— then. “Good heavens!’’ Lady Randolph 
cried. 

“ What is the matter, aunt?” said Sir Tom; he put out his big 
hand and took it from before her, with the license of his privileged 
position. “We others are most anxious to hear, and you keep it to 
yourself. Shall I read it aloud, Miss Lucy?” 

“ No! no!” Lady Randolph cried, putting out her hand. She 
was pale with fright and trouble, but Sir Tom did not pay any 
attention; he did not notice her looks, and what was there in Bertie 
Russell to make anything that could be said about his book alarm- 
ing 1o these ladies? He took it up lightly. 

“ I must see this Russell,” he said, “ that you are so much inter- 
ested in. What right has the fellow to make you anxious?” he was 
looking at Lucy, who was, indeed, curious and interested, but no 
more. “ Now. if you are not good,” he said, looking at her, “ I 
shall keep you in suspense.” 

But Lucy did not accept the challenge. She smiled in reply, with 
her usual tranquillity. 

“ It is Mrs. Russell who will be in suspense,” she said; and with 
a little friendly nod at her he began to read. It was the kind of 
review for which this organ of the highest literature was famous. 
This was what Sir Thomas read: 

‘“We have so often had occasion to point out to the female manu- 
facturer of novels the disadvantages which attend her habitual un- 
acquaintance with the simplest rules of her art, that it is a sort of 
relief to find upon the title-page of the most recent example of this 
class of productions a name which is not feminine. The occurrence 
is rare. In this branch of industry, at least, men have shown a 
chivalrous readiness to leave the laurels growing low, and therefore 
within the reach of the weaker vessel, to the gathering of woman. 
She has here had the chance, so often demanded, of proving her 
powers, and she has not been reluctant to avail herself of it. Al- 
most as appropriately feminine as Berlin wool, or the more fashion- 
able crewels, the novel of domestic life has acquired a stamp of 
virtuous tedium, or unvirtuous excitement, which are equally femi- 
nine, and we sigh in vain for a larger rendering even of the levities 
of existence, a treatment more broad, a touch more virile. ’ 

“ There’s for you, Miss Lucy,” said Sir Tom, pausing; “ how do 
you like that, my excellent aunt? He puts your sex in their right 
place. There’s a man now who feels his natural superiority, who 
contemplates you all de haut en has — ” 


190 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

“ Oh, don’t read any more, Tom; it is not worth your while to 
read any more.” 

“ Ah, you are hit!” he said, “ Hurrah! the iron has entered into 
your soul. ’ ’ 

“ ‘ Half a dozen pages of ‘ ‘ Imogen ’ ’ will, however ’ (he continued, 
reading), ‘ be enough to make any reader pause who is moved by 
this natural sentiment. What! he will ask himself, was there no 
little war in hand demanding recruits? no expedition to discover 
the undisco verable? even no stones to break on the road-side, which 
could have given Mr. Albert Russell a bit of manly work to do — 
that he must take up with this industry reserved for the incom- 
petent?’ ” 

Here Lucy uttered a long drawn “Oh!” of alarm. It had not 
occurred to her ignorance that there could be any malice in it. 

‘“We must give him credit, however, for a courage and liberality 
beyond that of his feminine contemporaries in the freedom with 
which he has mixed up what is apparently a personal romance of 
his own with this production of his genius. Whether the young 
lady who is poetically addressed as the Angel of Hope will relish 
the homage so publicly paid to her is a different matter. We can 
but hope that, since the art he has adopted is little likely, we fear, 
to reward his exertions, the other patronesses to whom he devotes 
himself may be more kind, and that the owner of the pretty Chris- 
tian name which is presented without the conventionality of a Miss 
or Mistress — ’ 

“ Hallo!” said Sir Tom. He had been reading on, without any 
particular attention to what he read, until the recollection of what 
it meant suddenly flashed upon him. He grew very red, put down 
the paper, and looked at his companions. ' * By Jove!” he cried. 

“I told you not to read it,” cried Lady Randolph. “ Never 
mind, Lucy, my love, nobody will know it is you. Oh, I could 
kill the presumptuous, impertinent — And that woman is worse!” 
she cried, with vehemence. “ She who knew all about it; I will 
never forgive her. She shall never enter this house.” 

“ Woman?” said Sir Thomas, “ what woman? By Jove!” here 
he got up and buttoned his coat, “ whoever the fellow is he shall 
have my opinion of him before he is much older.” 

“ Sit down, Tom, sit down. If it was a fellow whom you could 
knock down there would be no great harm done; no fellow ever 
wrote that” cried Lady Randolph, with that fine contempt of mas- 
culine efforts which is peculiar to women. “ Oh, I know the hand! 
I know every stroke! But never mind, never mind, my dear child, 


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197 


nobody will connect you with it; unless the * Age ’ gets hold of it, 
and gives us all a paragraph: there is nothing more likely, ” she 
cried with tears of anger and annoyance. As for Sir Thomas, he 
paced about the room in great perturbation, saying, “ By Jove!” 
under his breath. 

“A woman! then there is nothing to be done,” he said. 

Oh, no; you can’t knock her down, more’s the pity! or call her 
out. But, Tom, if you will think, it is just as well, it is far better; 
we can’t have any talk got up about that innocent child.” 

“ Lady Randolph, is it me you are thinking of? What harm can 
it do me?” said Lucy, who had grown pale, but was puzzled and 
frightened, and did not quite understand why all this excitement 
should be. 

“ What harm, indeed!” cried Lady Randolph, “ so long as you 
don’t mind it, my darling! She is the only one that has sense 
among us, Tom. ’ ’ 

“ That is all very well,” Sir Tom said. “ She is too young to 
understand; it is meant for an insult. There’s the harm of women 
getting their fingers into every pie. You can’t kick them. By 
Jove! isn’t there any other way that one can serve her out?” 

“ Sir Thomas,” said Lucy, “ you laughed at me #bout it your- 
self.” * ♦ 

“ So I did; I am ready to laugh at you, my dear little girl, any 
moment; but I should like to see another man do it,” he cried. 

Lady Randolph looked at him in dismay. What could he mean? 
— to speak with such kindly familiarity, as if she were his cousin, at 
the least. (Though Lady Randolph professed to be a connection, 
yet this link was not even known to Sir Tom.) Would not the 
heiress be alarmed? would not she suspect and divine? She turned 
her eyes furtively toward Lucy, more troubled than before. 

But Lucy took it all very calmly. She showed no consciousness 
of too much or too little in her new friend’s address. She smiled 
at him with grateful confidence, without even a blush. What was 
there to blush for? Then her face clouded over a little. 

“ Will it hurt the book? Will he get no money for it?” she said. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A BAD RECEPTION. 

Lucy rode to Hampstead that morning, Sir Thomas, to her great 
surprise, volunteering to go with her. He had some one in those 
regions whom he too wished to see, he said. Lucy was not sure 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


whether she was most pleased or disconcerted by this companion- 
ship; but the ride was all the more agreeable. He was, as usual, 
very kind, friendly, and brotherly — or rather, as she thought, taking 
his own statement frankly, like an uncle, an elder, experienced, but 
altogether delightful friend, to whom she could say a great many 
things, which it would have been impossible to say to one near her 
own age and condition. 

Oddly enough Lucy was mysterious to Sir Thomas, the only per- 
son with whom she felt inclined to be confidential. She hovered 
about the edge of her secret, asking herself whether she should con- 
fide in him, half betraying herself, then drawing back, more from 
shyness than want of faith in him. She had known him so short a 
time, perhaps he would think it bold and presuming of her to thrust 
her confidences upon him. This hesitation on her part gave her an 
attraction which was not at all natural to her. The touch of the 
little mystery added what was wanting to the simplicity, and good 
sense, and straightforward reasonableness of Lucy’s character. 
What was it that lay thus below the surface? Sir Thomas asked 
himself. What did she want to confide to him? there was certainly 
something; was it some entanglement or other, some girlish engage- 
ment perhaps with this fellow, who had been base enough to expose 
her to the remarks of tfie world? It seemed to Sir Tom that this 
was the most natural secret, the most probable embarrassment that 
Lucy could have; and with great vehemence of disdain and wrath, 
he thought of the “ cad ” who had probably inveigled the girl into 
some sort of promise, and then proceeded to brag of it before all the 
world. Thus Sir Thomas Randolph, out of his much experience, 
entirely misconstrued these two young persons who had no experi- 
ence at all. Bertie Russell was not a young man of very elevated 
character, but he was not a “ cad;” neither, very far from it, was 
Lucy a fool; but then Sir Tom — though he was full of honest in- 
stincts and good feeling, and would not himself (though he thought 
it no harm to lay siege to an heiress, when the chance fell in his 
way) have done anything which could be stigmatized as the act of 
a cad— still judged as the world judges, which is, after all, a super- 
ficial way of estimating human action; and he was as entirely 
wrong, and blundered as completely in the maze of his own inven- 
tions, as the greatest simpleton could have done; which is one of 
the penalties of worldly wisdom, though one which the wise are 
most slow to learn. Notwithstanding, he made her ride very pleas- 
ant to Lucy. He talked upon all sorts of subjects, not allowing her 
mind to dwell upon the annoyance of the morning. And though 


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199 


this annoyance was not at all of the kind he imagined, it was still 
good for her not to be left to invent little speeches to be made to 
Mrs. Russell, or to imagine dialogues that might never take place. 
Lucy’s mind had been in a good deal of excitement when they set 
out. She had resolved to make the plunge, to announce her inten- 
tions to Mrs. Russell and though there was nothing but good in 
these intentions, still it requires almost as much courage to inform 
a person who has no natural claim upon you that you mean to pro- 
vide for her as it does to interfere in any other way in the concerns 
of a stranger; or at least, this was how Lucy felt. Her heart beat; 
had she been a poor governess going to look for a situation she 
could not have been more nervous about the result of the interview. 
But the summer morning was exhilarating, and Sir Thomas talked 
to her all the way. He told her of a great many other rides taken 
in very different circumstances; he took her for little excursions, so 
to speak, into his own life; he made her laugh, he led her out of 
herself. When she reached Mrs. Russell’s door she had almost 
forgotten how momentous was the act she was about to do. ‘ ‘ I will 
come back for you,” Sir Tom cried waving his hand. He did not 
come up the steep bit of a street. How kind he was — not oppressing 
her with too much even of his own company! Lucy had not 
known how she was to get rid of him when she reached the house. 

The house looked more neglected than ever when Lucy went in. 
She could not but notice that as soon as she appeared, the blind of 
the dining-room, which faced the street, was hurriedly drawn down. 
She could, it was true, command it as she sat there on her horse; 
but she was wounded by the suggestion that she might intend to 
spy upon them, to look at something which she was not wanted to 
see. In the hall, outside the door of this closed room, a breakfast- 
tray was standing, though it was noon. The grimy little maid was 
more grimy than ever. She showed Lucy into the faded drawing- 
room where the blinds were drawn down for the sun, which, how- 
ever, streamed in at all the crevices, showing the dust and the faded 
colors. There were flowers on the table in a trumpery glass vase, 
all limp and dying. A shabby, miserable room, of which no care 
was taken, and which looked like the abode of people who had lost 
heart, and even ceased to care for appearances. Lucy’s heart sunk 
as she looked round. She who was so tidy, with so much bourgeois 
orderliness in her nature, felt all this much more than perhaps an 
observer with higher faculties would have done. It looked as if it 
had not been “ touched ” this morning, and it was with a pang of 
pity that Lucy regarded the evident disorganization of a house in 


200 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


which the chief room, the woman’s place, “ had not been touched ” 
at noon of a summer day. It almost brought the tears to her eyes. 
And she had a long time to wait to note all the dust, the bits of 
trimming torn off the curtains, the unmended holes in the carpet. 
She even looked about furtively for a needle and thread; but there 
were no implements of work to be seen, nothing but the fading 
flowers all soiled with decay, a fine shabby book on the undusted 
table, the common showy ornaments all astray on the mantel-piece. 
About a quarter of an hour passed thus before Mrs. Russell came 
in, with eyes redder than ever. Mrs. Russell could not be untidy 
though her room was. She had the decorum of her class, whatever 
happened; but her black gown was rusty, and the long streamers of 
her widow’s cap had been worn longer than was compatible with 
freshness. She held herself very stiffly as she came in and gave 
Lucy the tips of her fingers. The poorer she was the more stately 
she became. There was in her attitude, in her expression, a re- 
proach against the world. That she should be thus poor, thus un- 
fortunate, was somebody’s fault. 

“ Your little brother is out, Miss Trevor, with the others. He 
thought you had quite given him up, and were coming no more.” 

“ Oh, Jock could not think that.” 

“ Perhaps not Jock; but I certainly did, who have, I hope, some 
experience of the world,” said the poor lady in her bitterness. “ It 
is quite natural; though I should have thought Lady Randolph had 
sufficient knowledge of what is considered proper, to respect your 
recent mourning; but all these old formalities are made light of 
nowadays. When one sees girls dancing in crape! I wonder if 
they don’t feel as if they were dancing over their relations’ graves.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Russell,” said Lucy, “ I have not been dancing. I 
did not come because — because — It was Lady Randolph that was 
vexed. I am much obliged, very much obliged to Mr. Bertie for 
being so kind; but Lady Randolph thought—” 

“ Yes, I never doubted it,” cried Bertie’s mother, with an out- 
burst. “ I never doubted it! I told him it was imprudent at the 
time, and would expose him to unjust suspicions; as if he was one 
to scheme for anybody’s money! much more likely her own nephew, 
her dear Sir Thomas, whom she is always talking of! But Bertie 
would do it, he said where he owed gratitude he never should be 
afraid to pay it. And to think that the very person he wished to 
honor should turn against him; and now he is ruined altogether- 
ruined in all his prospects!” the poor mother cried amid a tempest 
of sobs. 


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201 


“ Ruined!” cried Lucy, aghast. 

“He is lying there, in the next room, my poor hoy. I thought 
he would have died this morning— oh, it is cruel, cruel! He is 
quite crushed by it. I tell him it is all a wicked plot, and that 
surely, surely, there will be some honest man who will do him 
justice! But, though I say it, I don’t put any faith in it, for where 
is there an honest critic?” cried Mrs. Russell; “ from all I hear there 
is not such a thing to be found. They praise the people they know 
— people who court them and fawn on them; but it isn’t in the 
Russell blood to do that. And the worst of all,” she said, with a 
fresh flood of tears, “ the worst of all — the thing that has just been 
the last blow — is that you have not stood by him, Lucy, you that 
kept on encouraging him, and have brought it all upon him.” 

‘‘/brought it all upon him!” Lucy’s consternation was almost 
beyond words. 

‘‘Yes, Miss Trevor,” said the poor lady, hysterically “He 
would never have done it had not you encouraged him — never! 
And now this is what is la-ought against him. Oh, they can not 
say a word against his talent,” she said; “ not a word! They can 
not say the book is not beautiful; what they say is all about that , 
which was put into please you — and you have not the heart to stand 
up for him!” the mother cried. She was so much excited, and 
poured forth such tears and sobs, that Lucy found herself without 
a word to say. The trouble, no doubt, was real enough, but it was 
mixed with so much excitement and feverish exaggeration that the 
girl’s sympathetic heart was chilled, and yet she had so much to 
say. “ But he must not put up with it,” cried Mrs. Russell ; “ he 
shall not put up with it if I can help it. He must write and tell 
them. And there is not one word of real criticism — not one word! 
Bertie himself says so; nothing but joking and jeering about the 
dedication. But I know whose hand that is — it is Lady Randolph 
who has done it. I knew she would interfere as soon as she 
thought — ‘Bertie,’ I said, ‘don’t — don’t, for heaven’s sake! You 
will bring a hornet’s nest about your ears.’ But he always said 
* Mother, I must. ’ And now to think that the girl herself, that has 
brought him into all this trouble, should not have the heart to stand 
up for him! Oh, it just shows what I’ve always said, the wicked- 
ness and hollowness of the world!” 

Then there was a pause, through which was heard only the sound 
of Mrs. Russell’s sobbing. Lucy sat undecided, not knowing what 
to do. She was indignant, but more surprised than indignant at 
the accusation; and she was entirely unaccustomed to blame, and 


202 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


did not know how to defend herself. She sat with her heart beat- 
ing and listened, now and then trying to remonstrate, to make an 
appeal, but in vain. At last, the moment came when her accuser 
had poured forth all she had to say. But this silence was almost 
as painful as the unexpected violence that preceded it. To be ac- 
cused wrongfully, if terrible, has still some counterbalancing effect 
in the aroused amour-propre of the innocent victim; but to watch 
the voice of the accuser quenched by emotion, to hear the sobs 
dying off, then bursting out again, the red eyes wiped, then filling 
— all in a silence which her own lips were too much parched with 
agitalion to permit her to break, was almost more hard upon Lucy. 
She had become very pale, and she did not know what to say. 
More entirely guiltless than she felt herself, no one could have 
been. She was so innocent that she had no defense to make; and 
the attack took from her all the thoughts of which her mind had 
been full. All the more the silence weighed upon her. It was ter- 
rible to sit there with her eyes on the floor, and say nothing. At 
last she managed to falter forth, “ May I see Jock, Mrs. Russell, 
before I go?” 

“I suppose you will want to remove him,” Mrs. Russell said. 
“ Oh, I quite understand that! I expected nothing less. The 
brother of a rich heiress is out of place with a poor ruined family. 
Everything is forsaking us. Let him go, too — let him go, too!'* 

“ Indeed,” said Lucy, recovering her composure a little. “ I was 
not thinking of that. I meant only — ” 

“Never mind what you meant, Miss Trevor; it is better he 
should go. Things have gone too far now,” said the disturbed 
woman. “ All the rest are going— we shall have to go ourselves. 
Oh, I thought it would not matter so long as my Bertie— God for- 
give them! God forgive them!” she said, with trembling lips. “ I 
thought it would all come right, and everything succeed, when my 
boy— But we are ruined, ruined! I don’t know where we are to 
turn or what we are to do. ’ * 

“Mrs. Russell, will you let me say something to you?” Lucy 
said. This cry of distress had restored her to herself. “ I meant 
to have said it before; it is not because of what has happened. It 
was all settled in my mind before; I was only waiting till I could 
arrange with my guardian. Mrs. Russell, papa left some money to 
be given away — ’ * 

Here she made a little pause for breath. Her companion made 
no remark, but sat, lying back in her chair, with her handker- 
chief to her eyes. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


203 


“ It was a good deal of money,” said Lucy. “ He told me I was 
not to throw it away, but to give enough to be of real use. I 
thought— that you would like to have some of it, Mrs. Russell; that 
— it might do you a little good.” 

Mrs. Russell let her handkerchief drop, and stared at Lucy with 
her poor red eyes. 

“ If you would let me give you part of it — I can not tell how 
much would be enough; but if you would tell me, and we could 
consider everything. It is lying there for the use of — people who 
are in want of it. I hope you will take some of it. I should be 
very thankful to you,” said Lucy, with a little nervous emphasis. 
” It is there only to be given away.” 

Lucy had felt that it would be a difficult communication to make, 
but she had no fear of any refusal. She did not venture to look 
up, but kept her eyes fixed on the carpet, though she was very 
conscious, notwithstanding, of every movement her companion 
made. The girl was shy of the favor she was conferring, and 
frightened in anticipation of the thanks she would probably receive; 
if only it could be settled and paid without any thanks! When her 
own voice slopped she became still more frightened. The silence 
was unbearable, and Lucy gave an alarmed glance toward the sofa. 
Mrs. Russell was gasping for breath, inflating her lungs, apparently, 
in vain, and struggling for utterance. This struggle ended in a 
hoarse and moaning cry. 

“ Oh, what have I done, what have I done, that it should come 
to this?” 

‘Mrs Russell! you are ill. Are you ill?” Lucy cried, alarmed. 

“ On, what have I done, what have I done, th^it it should come 
to this?” shft moaned. “ Am I a beggar that it should come to 
this? to offer me money in my own house? money, as if I were a 
beggar in the street? Oh, don’t say anything more, Miss Trevor, 
don’t say anything more.” Here she got up, clasping her hands 
wildly, and walked about the room like a creature distracted, as, 
indeed, between pride and shame, and wretchedness and folly, the 
poor woman almost was. “ Oh, why didn’t I die! why didn’t I die 
when lie died?” she cried. ‘‘It is more than I can bear. I, that 
was a Stonehouse, and married a Russell, to be treated like a beg- 
gar on the street. Oh, my God!” cried the excited creature, “ have 
I not enough to bear without being insulted? I can starve, or I can 
die, but to be insulted— it is more than I can bear.” 

Lucy was confounded She stumbled to her feet, also, in over- 
whelming distress. She had meant no harm, heaven knows! Sho 


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THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


had not meant to wound the most delicate feeling. It was a view 
of the matter which had never occurred to her. 

“I must have said something wrong— without meaning it,” she 
faltered. “ I don’t know how to speak, but I did not mean to make 
you angry; oh, forgive me! please forgive me! I mean nothing 
but — 

“ This is what it is to be poor,” Mrs Russell said. “ Oh, I 
ought to thank you for it, that among other things, I never would 
have known all the bitterness of being poor but for this; and yet I 
never held out my hand to ask anything,” she cried, beginning to 
weep. “ I never thrust my poverty on anybody. I did all I could 
to keep up — a good appearance; and to hope — ” here the sobs burst 
forth again beyond restraint — u for better days.” 

“ What is the matter?” said Bertie pushing open the door. He 
was carelessly dressed in an old coat, his hair in disorder, his feet 
in slippers, he who had always decorated himself so carefully for 
Lucy’s eyes. He did not take the trouble to open the door with his 
hand, but pushed it rudely with his person, and gave Lucy a sullen 
nod and good-morning. “ What are you making such a row about, 
mother?” he said. 

“ Oh, Bertie, Miss Trevor has come — to offer me charity!” she 
cried, “ charity! She sees we are poor, and, because she is rich, 
she thinks she can treat me, me! like a beggar in the street, and 
offer me money. Oh, Bertie! Bertie! my boy!” the poor woman 
threw her arm round him, and began to sob on his shoulder, “ what 
has your poor mother done that she should be humbled like this?” 

“ Charity!” he said; then looked at Lucy with an insolent laugh 
that brought the color to the girl’s face; “ it is, perhaps, conscience 
money,” he cried. Then putting his mother away from him-; " Go 
and lie down, mamma, you have had excitement enough this morn - 
ing. We are not beggars, whatever Miss Trevor may think.” 
Bertie’s eyes were red, too; he was still at the age when tears, 
though the man is ashamed of them, are not far from the eyes when 
trouble comes. “ Naturally,” he said, “ we all stand upon what we 
have got, and money is what you nave got, Miss Trevor. Oh, it is 
a very good thing, it saves you from many annoyances. We have 
not very much of it, but we can do without charity.” His lip 
quivered, his heart was sore, and his pride cut to pieces. “ Money 
is not everything, though, perhaps, you may be excused for think- 
ing so,” he said. He wanted to retaliate on some one; the smarting 
of his eyelids, the quiver which he could not keep from his lips, 
the wounds of his pride still bleeding and fresh, all filled him with 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


205 


a kind of blind fury and desire to make some one else suffer. He 
would have liked to tear his Angel of Hope to pieces in the misery 
of his disappointment. Was it not her fault? 

As for Lucy, she stood like a culprit before the mother and the 
son, looking at them with a pathetic protest in her eyes, like that 
with which an innocent dumb creature appeals against fate. She 
was as much surprised by all this storm of denunciation as a lamb 
is by the blow that ends its life. When they were silent, and it was 
time for her to speak, she opened her lips and drew a long troubled 
breath, but she could say nothing for herself. What was there to 
say? She was too much astonished even for indignation. 

“ I— will go, if you please, and wait for Jock in the street,” was 
all she found herself able to say. 

And just then the voices of the children, to her great relief, were 
audible outside. Lucy hurried away, feeling for the moment more 
miserable than she had ever been in her life before. There were 
but three little boys now, and Mary, who had come in with them, 
was standing a little in advance, listening, with an anxious face, to 
the sound of the voices in the drawing-room. Mary was hostile, 
too; she looked at Lucy with defiant eyes. 

“ Oh, is it really you, at last, Miss Trevor?” she said. 

Poor Lucy felt her heart swell with the sting of so much unkind- 
ness. She cried when Jock rushed forward and threw himself 
upon her. 

‘"You are the same at least,” she said, with a sob, as she kissed 
him. “ May he come out with me? for I can not stay here any 
longer.” 

The other girl, who did not know the meaning of all this, was 
shaken out of her sullenness by the threatening of another calamity. 
Mary had nothing to do with the quarrel. She grew, if possible, a 
little more pale. 

“ Do you mean that he is to go — for good?” she said, looking 
wistfully at the diminished band, only three, and there had been 
ten! It was all she could do to keep from crying, tco. “ I have 
always tried to do the best I could for him,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A RECEPTION OF A DIFFERENT KIND. 

Lucy rode home without waiting for Sir Thomas, with a heavy 
heart. She said very little when she got back. To Lady Randolph’s 
questions she had scarcely anything to reply. In Lady Randolph’s 


20 6 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


eyes the chief person to be considered was Lucy, whose name had 
been so cruelty brought before the public. When it did occur to 
her that the poor young author might be cast down by the cruel 
comments upon his first production, it is to be feared that the 
verdict “ served him right,” was the one that occurred first to her 
mind. Only in the course of the afternoon, when Lucy’s increased 
gravity had made a distinct impression upon her, did she express 
any feeling on this point. “ Of course I am sorry for his mother,” 
she said; “ a silly woman, no energy, no resource in her; but it will 
wound her of course. How are they getting on with their school? 
That little girl, Mary, that was the only one that seemed to me to 
be good for anything. Are they getting on any better with their 
school?” 

Lucy shook her head. She could not musler courage to speak, 
the tears were in her eyes. 

“Ah!” said Lady Randolph. Lucy’s emotion had a very dis- 
turbing effect upon her; but it moved her not to compassion for 
Mrs. Russell, but to suspicion against Bertie. “ I never thought it 
would come to much,” she said. “ It seems so easy to start any- 
thing like that. They had their furniture, and what more did they 
want? Indian children! one would think it rained Indian children; 
every poor lady with no money thinks she can manage to make a 
living out of them — without calculating that everybody in India, or 
almost everybody, has poor relations of their own.” 

But she was kind, notwithstanding her severity. Theie are few 
people who are not more or less kind to absolute suffering. Though 
she thought Mrs. Russell silly, and considered that her son had been 
served rightly (if cruelly), and was impatient of the foolish hopes 
on which their little establishment had been founded, still she could 
not be satisfied to leave the poor lady whom she had known in her 
better days to want. “ I will speak to Tom,” she said. “ If Bertie 
could but get some situation, far better than writing nonsensical 
books, something in the Customs, or perhaps the post-office. I be- 
lieve there are a great many young men of good families in places 
like that — where he could get a settled income, and be able to help 
his mother.” 

Lucy made no reply to this suggestion. She brightened a litlle 
in the evening, when Sir Tom came in bringing all his news with 
him; but she was not herself. When she was safe in her room at 
night, she cried plentifully, like a child as she was, over her failure. 
Perhaps her heart had never been so sore. Sorrow, such as she had 
felt for her father, is a different thing — there had been no cross or 


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207 


complication in that; but in this all her life seemed to be com- 
promised. This dearest legacy that had been left her, the power of 
making others happy, was it to be a failure in her hands? She had 
never contemplated such a probability. In all the books she had 
read (and these are a girl’s only medium of knowledge) there had 
been no such incident . There had been indeed records of profuse 
gratitude; followed by unkindness and indifference; but these had 
never alarmed Lucy. Gratitude had been the only thing she feared, 
and that the recipients of the bounty should forget it was her chief 
hope. But this unexpected rebuff threw Lucy down to the earth 
from those heights of happy and simple beneficence. Was it her 
fault? she asked herself; had she offered it unkindly, shown any 
ungenerous feeling? She examined every word she had said — at 
least as far as she could recollect them, but she had been so much 
agitated, so overwhelmed by the excitement and passion of the 
others, that she could not recollect much that she had said. All 
night long in her dreams she was pleading with people who would 
not take her gifts, and blaming herself for not knowing how to 
offer them. And when she woke in the morning, Was it my fault? 
was the first question that occurred to her. It seemed to assail the 
very foundations of her life. Was not this her first duty, and if she 
could not discharge it, what was to become of her? What would 
be the value of all the rest? 

She was sitting in the sitting-room in the morning, somewhat dis- 
consolate, pondering these questions. A bright, still morning of 
midsummer, all the windows open, and shaded by the pretty striped 
blinds outside, which kept out the obtrusive sunshine, yet showed 
it brilliant over all the world below; the windows were full of 
flowers, those city plants always at the fullest perfection, which 
know no vicissitudes of growth or decay, but fill the luxurious 
rooms with one continuous bloom, by grace, not of nature, but the 
gardener. It was the hour when Lucy was supposed to “read.” 
She had not herself any great eagerness for education; but no 
woman who respects herself can live in the same house with a 
young girl nowadays without taking care to provide that she shall 
“ read.” Lucy had need enough, it must be allowed, to improve 
her mind; but that mind, so far as the purely intellectual qualities 
were concerned, did not count for very much in her being. To be 
more or less well-informed does not affect very much, one way or 
other, the character, though we fear to utter any dogmatism on 
such a subject. She was reading history, poor child; she had a 
number of books open before her, a large atlas, and was toiling 


208 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

conscientiously through a number of battles. Into the very midst 
of these battles, her thoughts of the earlier morning, which were so 
much more interesting to her, would intrude, and indeed she had 
paused after the Battle of Lepanto, and was asking herself, not who 
was Don John of Austria, or what other great personages had 
figured there, which was what she ought to have done, but whether 
it could possibly be her fault, and in what other form she could 
have put it to succeed better, when suddenly, without any warning, 
a knock came to her door. She sat very bolt upright at once, and 
thought of Don John before she said “ Come in.” Perhaps it was 
the lady who was so kind as to read with her — perhaps it was Lady 
Randolph. She said, “ Come in,” and with no displeasure at all, 
but much consolation, closed her book. She was not sorry to part 
company with Don John. 

To her great surprise, when the door opened it was neither Lady 
Randolph nor the lady who directed her reading, but Mrs. Russell, 
with the heavy crape veil hanging over her bonnet, her eyes still 
very red, and her countenance very pale. Lucy rose hastily from 
her chair, repeating her “ Come in, ’ with the profoundest astonish- 
ment, but eagerness. Could it be Jock who was ill? could it be — 
Mrs. Russell smiled a somewhat ghastly smile, and looked with an 
anxious face at the surprised girl. She took the chair Lucy gave 
her, threw back her veil, and the little mantle from her shoulders, 
which was crape, too, and looked suffocating. Then she prepared 
for the interview by taking out her handkerchief. Tears were 
inevitable, however it might turn out. 

“ You will be surprised to see me,” Mrs. Russell said. 

Lucy assented, breathless. “ Is there anything the matter with 
Jock?” she said. 

“It is natural you should think of your own first,” said the 
visitor, with a little forced smile. “ Oh, very natural. We always 
think of our own first. No, Miss Trevor, there is nothing the mat- 
ter with Jock. What should be the matter with him? He is very 
well cared for. My poor Maiy gives herself up to the care of him. 
She lies awake with him and his stories. Mary is a— She is the 
best daughter that ever was—” the mother said, with fervor. Now, 
Mary was generally in the background among the Russells, and 
Lucy was perplexed more and more. 

“ It is by Mary’s advice I have come,” Mrs. Russell said, putting 
her handkerchief to her eyes. “ It has been very difficult for me, 
very difficult to make up my mind to come, Miss Trevor. Mary 
says she is sure you meant— kindly— yesterday. I don’t know how 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKD. 


209 


to refer to yesterday. Everything that passed is written here,” she 
said, putting her hand upon her breast, “ as if it were in fire— as if 
it were in fire! Oh, Miss Trevor! you don’t know what it is when a 
woman has kept up a good position all her life, and always been 
able to hold her head high — you don’t know what it is when she 
has to give in, and allow herself to be spoken to as one of the poor!” 

Here she began to cry, and Lucy cried, too. 

“ I did not mean it,” she said, fervently; “ indeed, indeed, I did 
not mean it. If I said anything wrong, forgive me. It was because 
I did not know how to speak. ’ ’ 

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Russell, drying her eyes, “perhaps it 
was so. You are very young, and you have not had much experi- 
ence; and, as Bertie says, you have so much money, that it is no 
wonder if you think a great deal of it. But you shouldn’t. Miss 
Trevor, you shouldn’t. Money is of great use; but it is not every 
thing. ” 

Here the poor lady paused and glanced round the room, in every 
point so dainty, all the details so perfect, everything fresh, well 
chosen, adapted to the corner it filled; and the flowers so abundant, 
and so sweet. “ Oh,” she said, “ it wants no arguing. Money tells 
for so much in this life. Look at my Mary. She is younger than 
you are, she is clever and good, yet look at her, and look at you. 
I think it will break my heart!” Lucy mde no reply. After all it 
was not her fault that she had a great deal of money, that she 
w r as a great heiress. There was no reason why that fact should 
break Mrs. Russell’s heart. “ If I had not had it,” she faltered, 
apologetically, “ some one else would have had it. It would not 
have made any difference if it had been another girl or me.” 

“ Oh, yes, it would have made a great difference. When you don’t 
know the person, it never feels quite so hard. But I don’t blame 
you — I don’t blame you. I suppose every one would be rich if 
they could; or, at least, most people,” said Mrs. Russell, with a 
tone which seemed to imply that she herself would be the exception, 
and superior to the charms of wealth. 

At this Lucy was silent, perhaps not feeling that she had ever 
wished to be poor; and yet who, she thought within herself, knew 
the burden of wealth as she did? it had brought her more trouble 
than pleasure as yet. She felt troubled and cast down, even 
though her girlish submission began to be modified by the faintest 
shy gleam of consciousness that there was something ludicrous in 
the situation, in her visitor’s disapproval, and her own humble half 
acknowledgment of the guilt of being rich. 


210 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ Miss Trevor,” Mrs. Russell said, with trembling lips, “ though 
I wish you had not found it out, or that, if you did, you had not 
taken any notice of it, which is what one expects from one’s friends, 
I can not deny that you are right. We have lost almost every- 
thing,” she said, steadying her voice in dreary sincerity. “We 
have been fighting on from hand to mouth — sometimes not knowing 
where next week’s bills were to come from. Oh, more than that — 
not able to pay the week’s bills; getting into debt, and nothing, 
nothing coming in. I kept up, always hoping that Bertie — Bertie 
with his talents — Oh, you don’t know — nobody knows how clever 
he is! As soon as he got an opening — But now it seems all 
ended,” she added, her voice failing. “These people — oh, God, 
forgive them — they don’t know, perhaps, how wicked it is — these 
envious cruel people have half killed my boy; and I have not a 
penny, nothing, Miss Trevor, nothing; and the rent due, and the 
pupils all dropping away.” 

Lucy rose and came to where the poor woman sat struggling with 
her emotion. It was not a case for words. She went and stood by 
her, crying softly, while Mrs. Russell leaned her crape-laden head 
upon the girl’s breast and sobbed. All her defenses were broken 
down. She grasped Lucy’s arm and clung to it as if it had been an 
anchor of salvation. “ And I came,” she gasped, “ to say, if you 
would really be so kind — oh, how can I ask it! — as to lend us the 
money you spoke of — only to lend it, Miss Trevor, till something 
better turns up — till Bertie gets something to do. He is willing to 
do anything now; or till Mary finds a situation. It can’t be but 
that we shall bo able to pay you, somehow — And there is the 
furniture for security. Oh, I don’t know how to ask it. I never 
borrowed money before, nor wished for anything that was not my 
own. But, oh, Lucy, if you really, really have it to do what you 
like with — The best people are obliged to borrow sometimes,” 
Mrs. Russell added, looking up wistfully, with an attempt at a 
smile, “ and there is nothing to be ashamed of in being poor.” 

But this was an emergency for which Lucy’s straightforward 
nature was not prepared. She had the power to give she knew; but 
to lend she did not think she had any power. What was she to do? 
She had not imagination enough to conceive the possibility that 
borrowing does not always mean repaying. She hesitated and 
faltered. “ Dear Mrs. Russell, it is there for you — if you would 
only take, take it altogether!” Lucy said, in supplicating tones. 

“ No,” said her visitor, firmly; *• no, Lucy, do not ask me. You 
will only make me go away very miserable— more miserable than I 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 211 


was when I came. If you will lend it to me I shall be very glad. 1 
don’t hesitate to say it will be a great, great service — it will almost 
be saving our lives. I would offer to pay you interest, but I don’t 
think you would like that. I told Bertie so, and he said if I were 
to give you an I — O — U — I don’t understand it, Lucy, and you do 
not understand it, my dear; but he says that is the way.” 

“ There was nothing about lending, I think, in the will,” said 
Lucy, very doubtfully; “ but,” she added, after a moment, with a 
sudden gleam of cheerfulness, “ I will tell you how we can do it. I 
am to be quite free to do what I please in seven years — ■’ ’ 

“ In seven years!” poor Mrs. Russell’s face seemed to draw out 
and lengthen, as she said these words, until it was almost as long as 
the period, though it did not seem easy to see by what means the 
fact could affect her present purpose. Lucy nodded very cheer- 
fully. She had quite regained her courage and satisfaction with 
her fate. 

“ I will give it you for seven years,” she said, going back to her 
seat, “and then you can give it me back again; there will be no 
need for I — O — what? or anything of the sort. We will be sure to 
pay each other, if we remember — ” 

“ I shall be sure to remember, Miss Trevor,” said Mrs. Russell, 
almost sternly; “ a matter of business like this is not a thing not to 
be forgot.” 

“ Then that is all settled, cried Lucy, quite gayly. “ Oh, I am 
so glad! I have been so unhappy since I was at Hampstead. I 
thought it must be my fault. 

“ Not altogether your fault, said Mrs. Russell. “ Oh, you must 
not blame yourself too much, my dear, there was something on 
both sides; you were a little brusque, and perhaps thinking too 
much of your money. I should says that was the weak point in 
your character; and we were proud — we are too proud — that is our 
besetting sin,” she said, with an air of satisfaction. 

Mrs. Russell dried the last lingering tears from the comers of her 
eyes, everything had become tranquil and sweet in the atmosphere 
once so laden with tragic elements; but still there was an anxious 
contraction in her forehead, and she looked wistfully at the girl 
who had so much in her hands. 

“I know,” said Lucy, “you would like it directly, and I will 
try to get it at once. I will send it to you, if I can, to-night; but 
perhaps not to-night, it might be too late; to-morrow 1 think I could 
be quite sure. And then we must fix how much,” said Lucy, with 
something of that intoxication of liberality which children often dis- 


212 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


play— children, but, alas! few people who have much to give. 
“ How many thousand pounds would do?” 

Mrs. Russeil was stupefied, her eyes opened mechanically to their 
fullest width, her lips parted with consternation. 

“ Thousand pounds!” she echoed, aghast. The poor soul had 
thought of fifty, and a hundred had seemed to her something too 
magnificent to be dreamed of. 

“ One thousand is only fifty pounds a year,” said Lucy, ‘ some- 
times not that, I believe; it is not very much. What I had thought 
of was five or six thousand, to make two hundred and fifty pounds 
a year. Mrs. Ford used to say that two people could live upon 
that. It is not much, I know, but it would be better, would it 
not?” the girl said, persuasively, “ to have a little every year, and 
always know you were going to have it, than to have a sum of 
money only once?” 

Mrs. Russell looked at the simple young face, all glowing with 
renewed happiness, till she could look no longer, it seemed to dazzle 
her. She covered her face with her hands. 

“ Oh, Lucy, I do not know whac to say to you. I have not de- 
served it, I have not deserved it,” she said. 

At luncheon Lucy was a changed girl. She had never looked so 
happy, so bright; the clouds had blown entirely away from her face 
and her firmament. She had written a letter to her guardian as 
soon as Mrs. Russell, her head light and giddy with sudden relief 
from all her trouble, had gone back to Hampstead in the omnibus, 
to which she had to bend her pride, protesting mutely by every 
gesture that it was not a thing she had been used to. No more 
had been said about the paying back. The idea of an income had 
stunned this astonished woman, had almost had upon her the 
effect of an opiate, soothing away all her cares and troubles, wrap- 
ping her in a soft stupor of ease and happiness. Could it be true? 
She had given up, without any further murmur or protest, the con- 
ditions she brought with her, and which she had meant to insist 
upon. Lucy’s final proposal had taken away her breath; she had 
not said anything against it, she had made no remonstrance, no 
resistance. Her mind was confused with happiness and ease, and 
the yielding which these sensations bring with them. So poor a 
care-worn woman, distracted with trouble and anxiety, she had been 
when, with her veil over her face to hide the tears that w r ould come 
against her will, she had been driven down the same long slope of 
road, sick with hope, and doubt, and terror, feeling every stoppage 
of the slow, lumbering machine a new agony, yet half glad of every* 


$&E GREATEST HEIRESS IK EttGhAtfD. 


m 


thing which delayed the interview she dreaded, the self-humiliation 
which she could not escape from. How different were her feelings 
now! She could not believe in the wonderful good fortune which 
had befallen her; it removed all capability of resistance, it seemed to 
trickle through all her veins down to her very feet, upward to 
nourish her confused brain, a subtle calm, an all-dissolving dew of 
happiness. Provided fori was it possible? was it possible? She 
did not believe it — the word is too weak, she was incapable of taking 
in the significance of it mentally at all; but it penetrated her and 
soothed her, and took all pain from her, giving her an all-pervading 
consciousness of rest. 

As for Lucy, she listened to Sir Tom’s gossip with that eloquent 
interest and ready amusement which is the greatest flatter}^ in the 
world. All his jokes were successful with her, her face responded 
to him almost before he spoke. Lady Randolph could scarcely be- 
lieve her eyes; the success of her scheme was too rapid. There was 
terror in her self-gratulation. Would Tom care for such an easy 
conquest? and if the guardians could not be got to consent to a 
marriage, was it possible that this could go on for seven years? 
She would have preferred a more gradual progress. Meanwhile, 
Lucy took an opportunity to speak apart to this kind new friend of 
hers, while Lady Randolph was preparing for her usual drive. 

“ May I ask you something?” she said, after she had actualty — 
no other word would describe the process — loheedled him up to the 
drawing-room after luncheon. It was not often Sir Thomas came to 
luncheon, and Lucy thought it providential. 

“ Ask me — anything in Ihe world!” he said, with the kind smile 
which seemed, to Lucy to warm and open up all the corners of her 
heart. It got into the atmosphere like sunshine, and she felt herself 
open out in it like a flower. 

. She stood before him very gravely, with her hands folded together, 
her eyes raised to bis, the utmost seriousness in her face, not at all 
unlike a girl at school, very innocent and modest, but much in 
earnest, asKing for some momentary concession. He had almost 
put his hand paternally upon the little head, of whose looks he was 
begining to grow fond, though, perhaps, in too elder-brotherly a 
way. It was while Sir Tom’s experienced heart was in this soft 
and yielding state that the little girl, raising her soft eyes, asked 
very distinctly, 

“ Then would you lend me a hundred pounds, if you please?” 

Sir Thomas started as if he had been shot. 

“ A hundred pounds!” he cried, with consternation in every tone. 


214 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Lucy laughed with the happiest ease. There was no one with 
whom she was so much at home. 

‘ ‘ It is only till to-morrow. I have written to Mr. Chervil to come, 
hut he can not come till to-morrow,” she said. 

“ And you want a hundred pounds to-day?” 

“ If you please,” said Lucy, calmly; “ if you will lend it to me. 
It w r ould be a pleasure to have it to day.” 

Sir Tom’s face grew crimson with embarrassment; had he a hun- 
dred pounds to lend? he thought it very unlikely; and his wonder 
was still more profound. This uttle thing, not much more than a 
child; what on earth could she want, all at once, with a hundred 
pounds? He did not know what to say. 

‘ My dear Miss Lucy,” he said (for though this title was incor- 
rect, and against the rules of society, and servant-maidish, he had 
adopted it as less stiff and distant than Miss Trevor). “ My dear 
Miss Lucy; of course 1 will do whatever you ask me. But let me 
ask you, from the uncle point of view, you know, is it right that 
you should want a hundred pounds ail in a moment? Yes, you 
told me you had a great deal of money, but you have also a very 
small number of years. 1 don’t ask what you are going to do with 
it. We have exchanged opinions already, haven t wer about the 
pleasure of throwing money away But do you think it is right, 
and that your guardian will approve?” 

‘ It is quite right,” said Lucy, gravely; ‘ and my guardian can 
not help but approve, for it is in papa’s will, Sir Thomas Tlianu 
you very much. I am not throwing it away. I am giving it back.” 

** What does the little witch mean?” he asked himself, with con- 
sternation and bewilderment but what could be done? He went 
out straightway, and after awhile he managed to get her the hun- 
dred pounds. A baronet with a good estate and some reputation, 
even though he may have no money to speak of, can always manage 
that. And Lucy accepted it from him quite serenely, as if it had 
been a shade of Berlin wool, showing on her side no embarrassment, 
nor any sense that it was inappropriate that he should be her cred- 
itor. She gave him only a smile and a thank you, and apparently 
thought nothing more of it. Sir Thomas was fairly struck dumb 
with the adventure; but to Lucy, so far as ne could make out, it 
was the most every-day occurrence. She sent her maid to Hamp 
stead that evening — dressing for dinner by herself, a thing which 
Lucy, not trained to attendance, was always secretly relieved to 
do — with a basket of strawberries for Jock, and a letter for Mrs* 
Russell, and the girl’s face beamed when she came down stairs. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


215 


They took her to the opera that evening, where Lucy sat very tran- 
quilly, veiled by the curtains of the box, and listened conscientious- 
ly, though she showed no signs of enthusiasm. She had a private 
little song of her own going on all the while in her heart. 


CHAPTER XXVTI. 

LUCY’S FIRST VENTURE. 

While Lucy’s mind was thus soothed and comforted by the con- 
sciousness of doing her duty, a very different effect was produced 
upon her father’s executors, who, it is scarcely necessary to say, 
regarded her attempt to fulfill the commands of the secret codicil 
with mingled consternation and fury. Mr. Chervil, who, being at 
hand, was the first representative of these legal authorities to be ap- 
pealed to on the matter, had obeyed her first call with some sur- 
prise, and had been, as was not unnatural, driven nearly frantic by 
the quiet intimation given him by the little girl, whom he looked 
upon as a child, that she intended to use tiie power intrusted to her. 

“ What do you know about Codicil F?” he said, “ I don’t know 
that there is any Codicil F. I don t believe in it. You are under 
a mistake, Miss Lucy;” but when she made it apparent to him that 
her means of knowing were unquestionable, and her determination 
absolute, Mr. Chervil went a step further — he blasphemed. “ It is 
against every law,” he said. “ I don’t believe it would stand in 
any court. I don't feel that I should be justified in paying any 
attention to it. I am sure Rushton would be of my opinion. It 
was a mere piece of folly, downright madness, delusion — I don’t 
know what to call it.” 

“But whatever it is,” said Lucy, with great prudence, putting 
forth no theory of her own, “ what papa said is law to me.” And 
though his resistance was desperate she held her own with a gentle 
pertinacity. 

Lucy’s aspect was so entirely that of a submissive and dutiful 
girl she was so modestly commonplace, so unlike a heroine, that it 
was a long time before he could believe that this little creature 
really meant to make a stand upon her rights. He could scarcely 
believe, even, that she understood what those rights were, or could 
stand for a moment against his denial of them. When he was 
driven to remonstrance, a chill of discouragement succeeded the first 
fury of his refusal. He tried every oratorical art by sheer stress of 
nature, denouncing, entreating, imploring a d in a breath. 


216 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ lr is like something out of the Dark Ages,” he cried. “ It is 
mere demoralization. You will make a race of paupers, you will 
ruin the character of every person who comes near you. For God s 
sake! Miss Lucy, think what you want to do. It is not to give 
away money, it is to spread ruin far and wide — ruin of all the moral 
sentiments; you will make people dishonest, you will take away 
their independence, you will be worse than a civil war! And 100k 
here,” cried the executor, desperate, “ perhaps you think you will 
get gratitude for it, that people will think you a great benefactor? 
Not a bit of them! You w r ill sow the wind and reap tne whirl- 
wind,” he cried, wTath and despair driving him to that great store- 
house of poetry with which early training still supplies the most 
commonplace of Englishmen. 

Lucy listened with great attention, and it was an effort for her to 
restrain her own awe and respect for “ a gentleman,” and the almost 
terror with which his excitement, as he paced about her little dainty 
room, shaking the whole house with his hasty steps, filled her. To 
see her mild countenance, her slight little form, under the hail-storm 
of his passion, was half pathetic and half ludicrous. Sometimes she 
cried, sometimes trembled, but never gave in. Other stormy inter- 
views followed, and letters from Mr. Rushton, in which every argu- 
ment was addressed both to her “ good sense ” and “ good feeling;” 
but Lucy had neither the good sense to appreciate their conscien- 
tious care of her money nor the good feeling to allow that her father 
had in this particular acted like a fool or a madman. She was wise 
enough to attempt no argument, but she never gave in; tnere were 
moments, indeed, when the two men were in hopes that they had 
triumphed; but these were only when Lucy herself was wavering 
and discouraged in regard to the Russells, and unable to decide 
what to do. The evening after her final interview with Mrs. Rus- 
sell she sent for Mr. Chervil again; and it was not without a little 
panic and beating of her neart that Lucy looked forward to this 
conclusive meeting. She had to prop herself up by all kind of sup- 
ports, recalling to herself the misery she had seen, and the efforts 
to conceal that misery, which were almost more painful still to be- 
hold, and, on the other hand, the precision of her father’s orders, 
whicn entirely suited tne case- ‘ If it is a woman, let it be an in- 
come upon which she can live and bring up her children;” nothing 
could be more decided tnan this. Nevertheless, Lucy felt her heart 
jump to Her mouth when she heard Air. Chervil’s heavy yet impetu- 
ous feet come hastily upstairs. 

And Mr. Oheryil, as was natural, made a desperate stand, feeling 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


217 


it to be the last. He made Lucy cry, and gave her a great deal of 
very unpleasant advice; he went further, he Tbullied her, and made 
her blush, asking, coarsely, whether it was for the son’s sake that 
she was so determined to pension the mother? for she had been 
obliged to give him full particulars of the Russell family and their 
distresses. It was a terrible morning for the poor little girl. But 
if the executor ever hoped to make Lucy swerve, or to bully her 
inlo giving up her intention, no mistake could be greater. She 
blushed, and she cried with shame and pain. All the trouble of a 
child in being violently scolded, the hurts and wounds, the mortifi- 
cation, the sense of injustice, she felt, but she did not yield an inch. 
Lucy knew the power she had, and no force on earth would have 
turned her from it. He might hurt her, that was not hard to do, 
but change her mind he could not; her gentle obstinacy was invinci- 
ble; she cried, but she stood fast; and naturally the victory fell to 
her, after that battle. From the beginning Mr. Chervil knew well 
enough that if she stood out there was nothing to be done, but it 
seemed to him that fifty must be more than a match for seventeen; 
and in this he was mistaken, which is not unusual. When, how- 
ever, all was over, the capitulation signed and sealed, and Lucy, 
though tearful, intrenched with all her banners flying upon the field 
of battle, a new sensation awaited the discomfited and angry guard- 
ian of her possessions. He thought he had already put up wim as 
much as flesh and blood could bear, but it may be imagined what 
Mr. Chervil’s feelings were when his ward thus addressed him, 
putting back a little lock of hair which had got out of its usual tidi- 
ness during the struggle (for though there was no actual fighting — 
far be it from us to insinuate that the angry guardian went the 
length of blows, though he would have dearly liked to whip her, 
had he dared — agitation itself puts a girl’s light locks out of order), 
and pursuing a last tear into the comer of her eyes : 

“ I want a hundred pounds, if you please, directly; I borrowed it 
yesterday, ” said Lucy, with great composure, “ from Sir Thomas, 
and I said I would pay it back to-day.” 

“ You — borrowed a hundred pounds — from Sir Thomas!” Hls 
voice gurgled in his throat. It was a wonder that he did not have 
a fit; the blood rushed to his head, his very breath seemed arrested. 
It was almost as much as his life — being a man of full habit and 
sanguine temperament — was worth. 

“ Yes,” said Lucy’s calm, little soft voice. There was still occa- 
sionally the echo of a sob in it, as in a child’s voice after a fit of 


218 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


crying, but yet it was quite calm. “ Will you write a check for 
him, if you please?” i 

“You will drive me mad, Miss Lucy, before you have done!” 
cried the excited executor, “ all for this woman, this young fellow’s 
mother, this object of your — And you go and borrow from an- 
other man, borrow, actually — money— from another man, you, an 
unmarried girl! Oh, this is too much! I must put your affairs in 
Chancery! I must wash my hands of you! borrow money — from a 
man!” 

“But I don’t know who else I — could have borrowed it from. 
Sir Thomas is not just a man; he is a friend. I like him very much, 
there is nobody so kind. If I had asked Lady Randolph she would 
have insisted upon knowing everything; but Sir Thomas under- 
stands me — a little, ’ ’ Lucy said. 

“ Understands you — a little? Well, it is more than I do,” cried 
her guardian; but when he came to think of it, this complication 
silenced him, for if the young fellow at Hampstead had been the ob- 
ject of any childish infatuation Sir Thomas could not have been 
brought into it in this way; and if she had a fancy for Sir Thomas, 
it was clear the young fellow at Hampstead must be out of it. She 
could not possibly, at her age, be playing off the one against the 
other. So Mr. Chervil concluded, having just as little confidence 
in the purity and simplicity of Lucy’s motives, as everybody else 
had; and he gave the check with groans of suppressed fury, yet be- 
wilderment. “ You don’t know the world. Miss Lucy,” he said, 
“though you are very clever. I advise you not to borrow from 
gentlemen; they are apt to fancy, when a girl does that sort of 
thing— And I will not have it!” he added, with some violence. 

You are my ward and under age, notwithstanding that mad codi- 
cil. If it were not that a great part of the money w r ould go to your 
little brother in case we broke the will, by George, I should try it!” 
the outraged executor said. 

“Would it— to Jock? Oh, that would be a blessing!” cried 
Lucy, clasping her hands; then she added, the light fading from 
her face, “ But that would be to go against everything papa said, 
for Jock is no relation to my Uncle Rainy. Of course, ” said Lucy, 
with delightful inconsistency, “ when I can do what I like, in seven 
years’ time, Jock shall have his full share, and if I were to die he 
would be my heir; you said so, Mr. Chervil, that made my mind 
quite easy. But I shall not be able to borrow from Sir Thomas 
again,” she added, with a laugh, “ because he will not be here.” 

What could the guardian do more? There was no telling what 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EKGLAHD. 


219 


might happen in seven years; before seven years were over, please 
God, she would be married, and trust her husband to guard against 
the dividing of the fortune! It would be better, Mr. Chervil con- 
cluded, to put up with the loss of a few thousand pounds than to 
risk the cutting up of the whole property, and the alienation of a 
great part of it from poor Rainy’s race. Besides, the executor 
knew that to break the will would not be an easy matter. The 
codicil miarht be eccentric, but old Trevor was sane enough. He 
growled, but he wrote the check, and submitted to everything, 
though with an ill grace. Lady Randolph offered luncheon to the 
gentleman from the city, and was pointedly ceremonious, though 
civil. 

“Miss Trevor is rather too young to have such lengthened con- 
ferences with gentlemen,” she said, “ though I have no doubt, Mr. 
Chervil, I can trust you.” 

“ Trust me, my lady! Why, I am a man with a family!” cried 
the astonished executor. “ I have daughters as old as Miss Lucy.” 
He was confused when Sir Tom’s large laugh (for Sir Tom was 
here again, much amused with the little drama, and almost making 
his aunt angry by the devotion with which he carried out her 
scheme) showed him the folly of this little speech, and added awk- 
wardly, “ I don’t suppose she will cDme to any harm in your hand, 
but she’s a wild madcap, though she looks so quiet, and as obsti- 
nate — ” 

“ Are you all that?” Sir Thomas said, looking at Lucy with the 
laugh still in his eyes. “ You hide it under a wonderfully innocent 
exterior. It is the lion in lamb’s clothing this time. I think you 
must require my help, aunt, to manage this dangerous young lady.” 

“ Oh, I can dispense with your help,” Lady Randolph said, with 
a little flush of irritation. Decidedly things were going too fast 
and too far; under the very nose of the executor, too, who, no 
doubt, kept a most keen outlook upon all who surrounded his pre- 
cious ward. “Iam not afraid of Lucy, so long as she is let alone 
and left to the occupations suitable to her age. ” And with this her 
ladyship rose from the table, and with some impatience bade her 
young companion get ready for their drive; though, as everybody 
could see, even through the closed blinds which kept the dim dining- 
room cool, it was hours too early for any drive. 

“ Just a word to you, Sir Thomas, if you’ll permit me,” Mr. 
Chervil said. “ That dangerous young lady, as you call her, will 
run through every penny she has, if she is allowed to have her own 
way. If you would be so kind as to not encourage her it would be 


220 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


real friendship, though she mightn’t think so. But as long as any 
one backs her up — ” 

Sir Thomas opened his eyes wide. “ Ah, I see! you took what I 
said au pied de la lettre ,” he said, with languid contempt. Now the 
executor was little experienced in the French or any foreign tongue, 
and he did not know what the foot of the letter meant. He cried, 
“Oh, no, not at all!” apologetically, shocked by his own boldness; 
and went away bewildered all round, and much troubled in his 
mind about the stability of the Rainy estate. Mr. Chervil was the 
most honorable of trustees — his own interest had nothing at all to 
do with his opposition. But prodigality in business matters was, to 
him, the master sin, above all those of the Decalogue. There was, 
indeed, no commandment there which ordained, “ Thou shalt not 
waste thy money, or give it injudiciously away. ’ ' But Mr. Chervil 
felt that this was a mere oversight on the part of the great lawgiver, 
and one which prudent persons had a right to amend on their own 
account. Mr. Chervil, who here felt an unexpressed confidence 
that he was better informed (on matters of business) than the A1 
mighty, was very sure that he knew a great deal better than old 
Trevor. He scouted the old man’s ideas as preposterous. That 
craze of his about giving it back was evident madness. Give it back! 
the thing to be done was exactly the contrary. He himself knew 
the way of doubling every pound, and building up the great Rainy 
fortune into proportions colossal and magnificent. But he did not 
think of any advantage to himself in all this. He was quite con- 
tent that it should be the little sedate figure of the girl which should 
be raised, ever higher and higher into the blazing heaven of wealth 
upon that golden pedestal, heaped with new and ever- renewed 
ingots. And not only was this, his ambition, perfectly honest, but 
there was even in a way something visionary in it, an ideal, some- 
thing that stood in the place of poetry and art to Mr. Chervil. It 
was his way of identifying the highest good, the most perfect beauty. 

A fortune does not appeal to the eye like a statue or picture; but 
sometimes it appeals to the mind in a still more superlative way. 
Old Trevor’s executor felt himself capable of working at it with an 
enthusiasm which Phidias, which Michael Angelo could not have 
surpassed. “ Ancti io pittore.” I too have made something all 
beautiful, all excellent, all but divine, he would have said, had he 
known how. And when he contemplated the possibility of having 
his materials taken from him piecemeal, and scattered over the 
country to produce quite inappreciable results in private holes and 
corners, his pain and rage and disappointment were almost as great 




THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


221 


as the sentiments which would have moved the fierce Buonarotti 
had some wretched bungler got into his studio, and cut knobs off 
the very bit of marble in which already he saw his David. There- 
fore it was not altogether a sordid sentiment which moved him. 
There was in it something of the desperation of a sincere fanatic, as 
well as the regret of a man of business over opportunities foolishly 
thrown away. 

And Lucy, if the truth must be told, got no particular satisfaction 
out of the proceeding. She thought it right to suggest, though very 
timidly, that instead of the bigger house which poor Mrs. Russell’s 
desperation had been contemplating, a smaller house, where she 
could herself be comfortable, would be the best; and the suggestion 
was not graciously received. The family indeed which she had so 
greatly befriended contemplates her with a confusion and embarrass- 
ment which made poor Lucy wretched. Mary, the one of them whom 
she had always liked best, avoided the sight of the benefactor who had 
saved them all from destruction. When she appeared reluctantly, her 
cheeks red with shame, and her eyes with crying, she could scarcely 
look Lucy in the face. “ Oh, Miss Trevor! I wish you had not 
done it. We should have struggled through and been honest,” 
Mary exclaimed, averting her eyes; and then she fell a-crying and 
begged Lucy’s pardon with half-angry vehemence, declaring she 
hated herself for her ingratitude. Wondering,' bewildered, and sad, 
Lucy stole away as if she had been a guilty creature from the house 
to which she had given a little fortune, ease, and security, and com- 
fort. Had she made enemies of them instead of friends? Instead 
of making them happy she seemed to have destroyed all family ac- 
cord, and put everything wrong. Nor was this all the trouble the 
poor girl had. She had scarcely got back from that mission of un- 
comfortable beneficence, when she saw, by the general aspect of 
affairs in Lady Randolph’s drawing-room that something was 
wrong. Lady Randolph herself sat bending, with quite unaccus- 
tomed energy, over a piece of work, which Lucy had got to know 
was her refuge when she was annoyed or disturbed — with a flush 
under her eyes, which was also a sure sign of atmospheric derange- 
ment. Sir Thomas was pacing about the room behind backs, and 
as Lucy came in she saw him (which even in a moment of violent 
commotion disturbed her orderly soul) tear a newspaper in several 
pieces, and throw it into the basket under the writing-table — a new 
newspaper, for it was Saturday. What could he mean? Near 
Lady Randolph was seated old Lady Betsinda full in the light, and 
looking more like a. merchant of old clothes than ever; while Mrs, 


222 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Berry-Montagu had her usual place in the shadow of the curtains; 
the two visitors had the conversation in their hands. 

“My dear Mary Randolph, ” Lady Betsinda -was saying, “you 
ought to have taken my advice. Neper have anything to do with 
authors; I say it to everybody, and to you I am sure if I have said 
it once I have said it a hundred times. They are a beggarly race; 
they don’t print by subscriptions nowadays, but they do far worse. 
If they can not get as much out of you as they want they will make 
you suffer for it. Have not I told you? When you’re good to 
them, they think they pay you a compliment by accepting it. A 
great many people think it gives them importance to have such per- 
sons about their house; they think that is the way to get a salon 
like the French, but there never was a greater mistake. Authors, 
so far as I’ve seen, are the very dullest people going; if they ever 
have an idea in their heads they save it up carefully for their 
books.” 

“ What would you have them to do with it, Lady Betty? Waste 
it upon you and me? Most likely we should not understand it, ” said 
the other lady, with her soft little sneer. “ Come in, come in, Miss 
Trevor, and sit and learn at Lady Betty’s feet.” 

Lady Randolph bent toward the speaker with a rapid whisper. 

“ Not a word to Lucy about it, for heaven’s sake!” she said. 

Mrs. Berry-Montagu made no reply; almost all that could be seen 
of her was the malicious gleam in her eyes. 

“ Come and learn wisdom,” she said, “at the feet of Lady Bet- 
sinda. When we have a university like the men, there shall be a 
chair of social experience, and she shall be voted into it by accla- 
mation. ’ ’ Lady Betsinda was a little deaf, and rarely caught all 
that was said, but she made no show of this imperfection, and went 
on without asking any questions. 

“ I have met a great many authors in my day,” she said; “ they 
used to be more in society in my time. Now it has become a sort 
of trade, I hear, like cotton -spinning. Oh, yes, cotton-spinners, my 
dear, get into society— when they are rich enough— and so do the 
people that write, but not as they used to do. They are commoner 
now. It seemed so very clever once to write a book; now, I hear, 
it’s a great deal more clever not to write. I don’t give that as my 
opinion; ask Cecilia Montagu, it is she who tells me all the new 
ideas.” 

“ Have I said so? It is very likely,” said that lady, languidly. 
“ It repays one for a great deal of ingratitude on the part of the 
world, to have a friend who remembers all one says.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


223 


“ Oh, I have the best of memories,” said Lady Betsinda; “ and, 
as I was saying, if you don’t go down on your knees to them they 
punish you. I was reading somebody’s life the other day — I re- 
member her perfectly well, one used to meet her at Lady Cheddar’s, 
and one or two other places — rather pretty and lackadaisical, and 
very, very civil. Poor thing! one saw she was there on sufferance; 
but if you will believe me — perhaps you have read the book, Cecilia 
Montagu? you would think she was the center of everything, and 
all the rest of us nowhere! And so poor Lady Cheddar, a really 
nice woman, will go down to posterity as the friend of Mrs. So- 
and-so, whom she asked out of charity! It is enough,” said Lady 
Betsinda, with indignation, “ to make one vow one will never read 
another book as long as one lives.” 

“ Mrs. So-and-so!” said Lady Randolph, “ I remember her very 
well. I think everybody was kind to her. There was some story 
about her husband, and poor Lady Cheddar took her up and fought 
all her battles — ” 

“ And has been rewarded,” said Mrs. Berry-Montagu, softly satir- 
ical, “with immortality. Good people, what would you have 
more? Fifty years hence who will know anything about Lady 
Cheddar except from the life of Mrs. So-and-so? And so it will be 
in — another case we know of. After all, you see that, though you 
make so little account of them, it is the poor authors who hold the 
keys of fame.” 

“ As for the other case, that is not a parallel case at all,” Lady 
Betsinda cried. “ Mrs. So-and-so was bad enough, but she did not 
put poor dear Lady Cheddar in the papers. No, no, she never put 
her in the papers; and Lady Cheddar was a woman of a certain age, 
and people did not need to be told what to think about her. These 
papers are a disgrace, you know; they are dreadful, nobody is safe.” 

“But what should we do without them?” said Mrs. Berry- 
Montagu, lifting up her languishing eyes. 

“That’s true enough,” said Lady Betsinda, softening; “one 
must know what is going on. But about a young girl, you know; 

I really think about a young girl — ” 

Here Lady Randolph interposed with rapid and alarmed dumb- 
show, and Sir Thomas made a stride forward, with such a lowering 
brow as Lucy had never seen before. What could be the matter? 
she wondered; but there the discussion stopped short, and she heard 
no more. 

This was the matter, however: that one of the newspapers of 
which society is so fond had taken up the romantic dedication of 


22 4 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“Imogen/’ and with an industry that might have been praise- 
worthy (as the police reports say) if employed in a better cause, had 
ferreted out a still more romantic edition of the story. It was not 
true, but what had that mattered? It gave a fancy sketch of Lucy, 
and her heiress-ship, and her rusticity, and described how the young 
novelist was to be rewarded with the hand of the wealthy object of 
his devotion, a devotion which had begun while she was still poor. 
Lucy had not learned to care for newspapers, and it was not at all 
difficult to keep it from her. But Sir Thomas gave all belonging to 
him a great deal of trouble to soothe him down, and persuade him 
that nobody cared for such assaults. 

“ It is quite good-natured; there is no harm intended,” Lady 
Randolph said; “ we all get a touch now and then.” 

‘ ‘ If that is no harm a punch on the head is still more innocent, ’ ’ 
said Sir Thomas, savagely, and it was almost by force, and solely 
because of the fact that this would be still worse for Lucy, that he 
was restrained. But Lucy never heard of it, and the article sold off 
at once, before a month was out, the whole edition of 4 ‘ Imogen. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

GOING HOME. 

And now the period of Lucy’s first experiment in life was over. 
From all the delicacies with which Lady Randolph’s care had sur- 
rounded her, and from the atmosphere of refinement to which she 
had grown accustomed, it was now the moment to descend and go 
back to the homely house which Jock and she instinctively still called 
“ home. ” He had come in from Hampstead a day or two before, 
and liv( d with Lucy in her little sitting-room, while all the pack- 
ing went on. The limit of the six months had been relaxed a little, 
to suit Lady Randolph’s convenience, who considered (as did her 
doctor) that after the fatigues of the season Homburg was a neces- 
sity for her. On ordinary occasions Lady Randolph spent a month 
at the Hall before she went to Homburg; but she had not thought 
it prudent this year to take Lucy there, so they had stayed in town 
till the parks were like brown paper, and the shutters were up in 
all the houses. This was a thing that had not happened to Lady 
Randolph for a long time, and she felt that she was something of a 
martyr, and that it was for Lucy’s sake. However, at last the long 
days came to an end. Parliament rose, and everybody, to the last 


the greatest heiress in England. 


225 


lingering official, went out of town. Sir Thomas, who had been at 
various places in the interval, and whose absence had been a real 
affliction to Lucy, came back again for a day or two before the final 
break-up. He was not going to Homburg, he was going to Scot- 
land, and it had been arranged that he should act as escort to Lucy 
on her journey, as Farafield and his own house were on his way to 
the North. Lady Randolph was not quite sure that she liked this 
arrangement; the “ whole thing,” she said to herself, "had gone 
too far. Tom was not prudent; to show his hand to the rest of the 
guardians at once, and put them all on their guard, was foolish; 
and as for waiting seven years! Lucy might do it; Lucy, who, 
her maternal guardian thought, already showed all the signs of be- 
ing in love; but Tom! he would have a dozen other serious devo- 
tions before that. Sir Tom was fond of platonic relationships — he 
did not want to marry, not being able, indeed, to afford that luxury, 
yet he liked the gentle excitement of a sentimental friendship. He 
liked even to feel himself just going over the edge into love, yet 
keeping himself from going over. He had kept himself from going 
over so many times, that he knew exactly what twigs to snatch at, 
and what eddies to take advantage of; therefore it is not to be sup- 
posed that there could be much danger to him from a simple girl. 
But certainly he had gone further than was at all expedient, Lady 
Randolph’s very anxiety that this time he should be brought to 
reason, should not catch at any twig, but allow himself to be really 
carried by the current to the legitimate end, made her unwilling to 
see matters hurried. Lucy would make him a very nice little wife, 
and, if he married, his aunt knew that he was far too good a fellow 
not to be a kind husband; but that Lucy’s simple attractions (even 
including her fortune, which was a charm that would never fail) 
could hold him for seven years, was not a thing to be hoped for. 
She spoke to Sir Tom very strongly on the subject the evening be- 
fore they separated. Lucy and little Jock — who always was a 
troublesome inmate to Lady Randolph because of his very quiet- 
ness, the trance of reading, in which she never could be sure that 
he was not listening — had gone upstairs early. London was very 
warm and dusty in these August days; the windows were open, but 
the air that came in was not of a very satisfactory description. Most 
of the houses were shut up round about, and in the comparative 
quiet sounds from the Mews behind were frequently audible. In 
short, there was about the district the uncomfortable feeling that the 
appropriate inhabitants had gone, and only a swarm of underground 
creatures were left, to come forth blinking from their coverts. In- 
8 


226 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


doors the furniture had all been put into pinafores, the pretty noth- 
ings on the tables had been laid away, the china locked up in cab- 
inets. Lady Randolph was starting by the morning mail-train. 

“You know, Tom,” she said, “ I am not at all sure that it is wise 
for you to go down with Lucy to-morrow.” 

“Why, aunt? You know it is on my way, ” he said, with a 
twinkle in his eye. 

“ Oh, stuff about it being on your way. You know it would not 
be on your way at all unless you liked to go.” 

“ Well!” Sir Thomas said, “ and after — ” he never indulged in 
the vulgarity of French; but he was given to literal translations, 
which is more aggravating, and neither one thing nor another, as 
Lady Randolph said. 

“ Well, it is just this: most of the guardians live in Farafield, and 
they will be immediately put on their guard if they see you much 
with her. There are the Rushtons, the law T yer people, and that 
Mrs. Stone, who keeps a school. They will both be in arms against 
you instantly. That father of Lucy’s was an old — I don’t want 
to be unkind to anybody that is dead and gone, but — ” 

“ Most likely he thought it would be better for her not to marry,” 
said Sir Thomas, tranquilly. 

“ What folly! well, it would be just like him. I don’t think the 
will would stand if it were ever brought inlo a court of law. There 
were the maddest provisos! However, unless it can be broken we 
must hold by it; and, Tom, you must let me say it, you ought to go 
more cautiously to work.” 

“ Is it worth the trouble?” he said, indifferently.' “My dear 
aunt, before a man takes the pains to work cautiously he must have 
set his heart on the prize with some fervor.” 

“ And haven’t you done so, Tom? Why, I thought you were 
going too far— and too fast. I did not see any doubt, or want of 
warmth, I assure you. Fervor! well, perhaps fervor is a strong 
word; that means difficulty to get over, and resistance, and a strug- 
gle perhaps. Poor little Lucy! I don’t think there will be much 
resistance on her part.” 

“Iam not at all so sure of that,” he said. 

“ Why, Tom! Poor child! we can’t blame her. She is only Sev- 
enteen; and you have a way— Ah, my boy, it is not want of ex- 
perience that will balk you. You have a way of speaking, and a 
way of looking. And Lucy is as simple as a little dove, there is no 
concealment about her. She thinks there is nobody like you.” 

“ Well, perhaps you are right. She thinks there is nobody like 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


227 


me,” said Sir Tom, with something of that softening of vanity 
which makes a man’s countenance imbecile when he thinks he is 
admired: “ but,” he added, with a little laugh, “ Lucy is no more 
in love with me than— I am with you. Like her, I think there is no- 
body like you — ” 

Oh, Tom-Tom, you are a deceiver! My dear, that is nonsense. 

There is no tie between her and you. The very first night I saw 
it. Fancy her sitting up to chatter to you— and chattering, she who 
is so quiet! Why, she is i great deal more open, more at her ease 
with you than with me.” 

“ All so many things against me,” he said; “she is not in love 
with me, as I tell you, any more than I am with you.” 

Lady Randolph was struck with great surprise, and so many 
things poured into her mind to be said that she was silent, and did 
not say anything, looking at him with confused impatience, and able 
to bring out nothing save a “ but — but,” of bewilderment. At last 
she enunciated with difficulty and hesitation, “ If this is true, which 
I can’t believe, do you mind, Tom?” 

“ Not much,” he said, then laughed, and looked her in the face. 
“You do not understand me, aunt. I think it quite likely that if 
it were put before her as a suitable arrangement, Lucy might make 
up her mind to marry me. She is beginning to get perplexed in her 
life. She has been on the point of confiding in me two or three 
times.” 

“ What?” said Lady Randolph, in great excitement. She could 
not think of anything but love about which a girl could be confi- 
dential, and Bertie Russell, like a Jack-in-the-box, suddenly jumped 
up in her anxious brain. But Sir Thomas shook his head. 

“ That is exactly what I can not tell you,” he said. “ I thought 
it might be some entanglement with that young fellow of the book; 
but it is not that. It is quite possible she might marry me—” 

“ Well, but, Tom, why should you be so very particular? Think 
what it would be for the estate. You might pay off everything, 
and regain the first position in the county. You ought to have the 
first position in the county. What is Lord Langton in comparison 
with the Randolphs? A nobody; and all this that girl could do. 
Only think what her fortune could do. I am not mercenary— I 
don’t think I am mercenary— but when you just realize it. Oh, 
how often I have said to myself, your uncle had no right to marry 
me. He ought to have married somebody with money. And now 
if you can set it right, why, oh, why, should you have any absurd 
scruples? Of course, Lucy would be veiy glad; and she would 


228 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


make you a good little wife. She is not impassioned— she never 
will be out of her wits about any one; if that is what you want, 
Tom.” 

“ No, I don’t think that is what I want,” he said; “ but in the 
meantime we need not quarrel about it; for you know there are the 
guardians to be taken into consideration, and it would be foolish to 
show one’s hand. And then there is plenty of time. One ought to 
go cautiously to work.” 

He laughed as he quoted all her own little speeches to her. But 
for her part Lady Randolph could have cried — how difficult it is to 
be patient when you are anxious! She had been alarmed by what 
she thought a too hasty progress; now she was cast down to the 
depths of trouble by this sudden suggestion that no progress at all 
had been made. She did not know what to do. It was no use 
speaking to Tom, so self-willed was he — always taking his own 
way. She had no patience with him. Of course Lucy liked him — 
how could she help it? And to think that he would run the risk 
of losing all that for the merest fantastic nonsense! Oh, she had no 
patience with him! But when he only laughed and made a joke of 
it all what was the use of saying anything? Poor Lady Randolph! 
She could not let things take their own way. She was unhappy not 
to be able to guide them, and yet she knew that she could not guide 
them. Either they would go on too quickly or they would not go 
on at all. 

The effect of this conversation was, that she started in a much 
less cheerful and hopeful state of mind for that yearly renovation at 
Homburg. She tried to make a parting effort for Sir Tom, when 
she -said good-bye to Lucy, who was to leave by a later train. ‘ ‘ If 
Tom stays at the Hall, and there is anything you want advice 
about, never hesitate to apply to him, my love,” she said; “you 
may have every confidence in him, as much confidence as in my- 
self.” 

“ Oh, yes, Lady Randolph,” said Lucy, with the warmest sincer- 
ity. “ I should ask him anything— he has always been so kind to 
me.” 

“ It is more than kindness— he has a real interest in you, Lucy; 
and you need never fear to trust Tom. He has a heart of gold, and 
he is the truest friend in the world,” Lady Randolph said. She 
kissed her charge with fervor. Could she say more? When she 
turned round who should be watching her but Tom himself, with 
that twinkle in his eye. The poor lady felt as if she had been de- 
tected. She made her exit quite crestfallen, while Sir Thomas 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


229 


paused to tell Lucy he would come back for her half an hour be- 
fore the train started. “ It is not everybody that would make him- 
self a railway porter for your service, is it, Miss Lucy?” he said, 
laughing. “ Depend upon it, however specious other people may 
look, it is ‘ Codlin’s the friend.’ ” He went out after his aunt, still 
laughing; but as for Lucy, she looked after him somewhat bewild- 
ered. Her reading was not her strong point, and she could not 
think what “ Codlin ” had to do with it, or who that personage was. 

But what a different Lucy it was that took possession of a special 
carriage reserved for her own party, to Farafield, with her maid 
and mountain of luggage, from the humble little Lucy, with two 
black frocks, who had come to town with Lady Kandolph in Feb- 
ruary. Her groom, with her horses and Jock’s pony, had gone the 
night before. Jock himself, embracing a big book, was the thing 
of all her surroundings that was the least changed. Lucy’s mind, 
indeed, was not altered, as were her outward circumstances, but it 
had expanded and widened, so that she became a little giddy as the 
journey approached its close, half pleased, half alarmed to think of 
the old life, the familiar streets, the old white parlor with its blue 
curtains, and the view from the window across the common to Mrs. 
Stone’s school. Sir Thomas, who had traveled with her part of the 
way, now departing to the smoking-carriage, now coming to inquire 
into her comfort and the progress she was making in the novel with 
which he had thoughtfully provided her, joined the party at the last 
important station. 

“You have scarcely read twenty pages,” he said, reproachfully, 
“ after all my care in choosing you a pretty book. You have read 
five times as much, Jock.” 

Jock looked up on being addressed. Though he was many fath- 
oms deep below the surface, he always heard when he was spoken 
to, and often when he was not spoken to. He was lying across the 
arm of one seat, with his book lying on the cushions of another, in 
a dark blue valley below him. He gave a sidelong look of disdain 
to his questioner. 

“ Do you count your pages?” said Jock, with contemptuous 
satire. “ I can tell by what the reading is. ’ ’ 

“ Hush, Jock! I was not reading at all,” Lucy said, “ but think- 
ing.” 

“ And what might the thinking be? regretting town, or welcom- 
ing the country? We’ll give her, Jock, two pennies for her 
thoughts.” 

“You know,” said Lucy, “it is not either town or country I 


230 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


was thinking of. I was thinking of Lady Randolph’s, and all that 
was new to me there; and of some things I have had to do, and how 
I have lived so different from everything before, and now coming 
back— home. It always was home, I can’t call it anything else; but 
it will be different again. There is no more papa. That does not 
make me unhappy,” said Lucy, the tears coming into her eyes, 
“ for it was what he always trained me to expect; but it will be 
dreary to go into the house and to find that he is not there, sitting 
by the fire — with the will.” 

“The will?” Sir Thomas had no fear to be thought inquisitive, 
his face was full of kindly interest and sympathy. 

“ Did I never tell you? that was all his thought. It was his 
amusement, as long — well, as long as Jock could remember. Don’t 
you recollect, Jock, how he would sit and write a little bit, and rub 
his hands, and read it to me when I came in? That is how I know 
so well all he wished me to do. He would put down his newspaper 
when something occurred to him, and write it down. It pleased 
him more than anything. Don’t you think it is a great pleasure, 
when any one is gone, to know exactly what they wished you to 
do?” 

“ It is a great bondage sometimes,” Sir Thomas said. 

“ I don’t think I shall feel it a bondage. But somehow going 
back is almost stranger than going away. The rooms at the Terrace 
will look small; and it will not be prettily furnished; and I shall 
not have Lady Randolph to talk to, nor the carriage, nor the vis- 
itors — ” 

“ These things are easily got, even the visitors. As for Lady Ran- 
dolph, perhaps you can put up with me instead. I am very fond of 
being talked to, and you know she recommended me as her substi- 
tute. ’ ’ 

That is very true,” said Lucy, with her usual calm; “ but then 
you are going to Scotland to shoot. You are only here on your way. ” 

“ There is no saying, if you consult me a great deal, and give me 
a great many interesting subjects to think about how long I may 
linger on my way.” 

” Oh, as for that!” said Lucy, ' ‘ there is one thing — very interest- 
ing; but then I am not sure if I should tell it to any one, though it 
would be a great, a very great comfort. I tried to tell Lady Ran- 
dolph once, and ask her — and I have wanted so much to tell you — 
to ask you — ” 

“ Well, I am a sort of an uncle, you know; that was the relation- 
ship we decided upon,” Sir Thomas said. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EtfGLAHD. 231 

Lucy did not say anything. She laughed, looking at him with a 
very winning confidence and trust in her eyes. They were quite 
unabashed in their modest gaze, conscious of no timidity, but there 
was a gentle affection in them which touched him. However, they 
were now drawing very near Farafield, and even her composed 
heart began to beat. She called Jock, very reluctant to be roused 
from his book, to look at the church-tower, the spire of the town 
hall, the big roofs of the market. “I don’t want to see them,” 
Jock said; all he wanted was his story. Perhaps it was her story 
that made Lucy so animal ed, one not yet written in any book. 

Sir Thomas had intended to take Lucy home, to see her in her 
old-new habitation, and make himself acquainted with her surround- 
ings; and to this end he had telegraphed to his servants to send a 
carriage to meet the train. But Sir Thomas had formed no idea in 
his mind of the real aspect of the other side of Lucy’s life; and it 
had not occurred to him that the people with whom she was going 
to stay had a right to guide her, equal to that which his aunt exer- 
cised. It was a shock to him to see that respectable couple who 
stood on the very edge of the station waiting for the 1 rain, and moved 
along by its side, panting yet beaming, as it gradually came to a 
standstill. “Welcome back, my darlings! welcome home, Lucy 
and Jock!” the woman said. She had not the least pretension to 
the title of lady. She was enveloped in a large shawl, though it 
was summer, and she was red and hot. She seized Lucy in her 
arms, pushing him away as he helped Ihe girl out of the carriage. 
“ Oh, my pet! we have been counting the days, Ford and I; and 
a’n’t you thankful to get home after being banished among stran- 
gers?” Sir Thomas was confounded. He had thought Lucy was to 
be pitied for the fantastic arrangement which transferred her from 
his aunt’s house to the care of the old servants, or poor relations, 
where her position and surroundings would be so different; but the 
suggestion that she had been banished among strangers took him 
altogether by surprise. He had been about to take Lucy to the 
carriage which was waiting; but in a moment she was separated 
from him, surrounded by these strange people, and drawn in the 
midst of them toward a fly which was standing near. It was a 
curious lesson for Sir Tom. He stood aside and looked on while 
she was taken out of his hands and deposited in the shabbier 
vehicle, with a sense of the ludicrous which struggled with a less 
agreeable feeling. There was another group on the platform to 
whom Lucy’s arrival was very interesting. This was the Rushton 
family, the lawyer himself, with his wife on his arm, and a tall 


232 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKD. 


youth, clad in a light summer suit, with his hands in his pockets, 
who lounged up and down the railway station after his parents, 
looking very much out of place, and somewhat ashamed of himself. 
Mrs. Rusliton dashed boldly in, into the midst of the salutations of 
the Fords. “ I must say a word to Lucy,” she cried. “We have 
just come in for a moment to welcome you home. Here, is your 
guardian, Lucy, and Raymond, your old playfellow.” It was all 
that Sir Tom could do not to laugh out. But the laugh was not 
pleasurable. He thought that anything more artless than this pres- 
entation of the old playfellow at the very earliest moment could not 
be; but yet what was he himself doing, and what were his induce- 
ments to give so much time and attention to this little girl? It was 
like a scene in the theater, but so much more dramatic than scenes 
in the theater often are. Lucy, in the midst, so eagerly secured by 
Mrs. Ford, so effusively embraced by the other lady, the leader of 
the opposition forces; while old Ford stood jealously on one side, 
and Mr. Rushton, with his hand held out, looked genial and affec- 
tionate on the other. The Fords were gloomy, concentrating their 
whole attention on the opposing band, whereas the Rushtons, who 
were the assailants, were directing all their smiles and caresses to 
Lucy, ignoring her relations. “ Ray — Ray — I know you are dying 
to shake hands with Lucy — come quick and say, how d’ye do. 
There is no time for any more just now; but I felt I must come just 
to give you a kiss, and bid you welcome,” said Mrs. Rushton. The 
lawyer for his part, shook a finger at her. “ Fine stories Chervil 
has had to tell about you, my young lady,” he said. 

“Lucy,” cried Mrs. Ford in sharp tones, “the fly is waiting, 
and 1 am ready to drop. Whoever wishes to see you can come and 
see you at the Terrace.” 

As for Lucy herself, she was so anxious to be civil to everybody, 
and so unaccustomed to the conflict lhat had thus suddenly sprung 
up around her, that she could not tell what to do. She looked 
round wistfully toward Sir Tom, who, for his part, stood quite out- 
side the immediate circle round her, smiling to himself with that 
quick perception of the “ fun ” of the situation, which was, Lucy 
thought with vexation, the chief thing he thought of. She felt 
wounded that he should laugh at her; but then he was always laugh- 
ing. Little Jock, on the other side, was a spectator too; but a 
scene has a very different aspect according as you look upon it 
from above or from below. Jock was low down among the feet 
of all these people. Mrs. Rushton nearly brushed him away with 
her ample gown; Ray all but knocked him down as he came for- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


233 


ward sheepishly to shake hands with Lucy. There was something 
savage in the energy with which little Jock clutched at his sister’s 
dress. “ I say, can’t they let us alone? I want to get home — I 
want to get home,” cried the little fellow. Nobody took the slight- 
est notice of little Jock. Sir Tom, in the distance, laughed more 
and more in his mustache, but ruefully. He came forward at last 
and lifted Jock out from among the other people’s legs. “ Come 
and stand here with me, old fellow; you and I are left out in the 
cold,” said Sir Tom. The tall man and the tiny boy stood out of 
the crowd and watched while Lucy was hustled into the fly. Sir 
Tom laughing, Jock alarmed and gloomy. “ She’s going away with- 
out me, ” Jock said with a naif consternation. Sir Thomas laughed. 
“ Your day and mine is over, old man,” he said. 

But Jock at least was not 1o be forgotten. “ Jock, Jock! where 
are you?” Lucy cried, anxiously looking out. The child pulled his 
hand out of Sir Tom’s and rushed away; then the whole party 
were packed inside the fly. Ford with his knees up to his chin bolt 
upright, Mrs. Ford sunk back into a corner, loosening her bonnet- 
strings, and “ worrited ” beyond all description, while Mrs. Rush- 
ton stood kissing her hand on the platform. “ If you please, Sir 
Thomas, what am I to do?” said a troubled voice as he looked 
after them. Then Sir Tom laughed out. It was Lucy’s maid, who 
had been left behind with a number of small matters. He put her 
into the carriage with secret glee, and sent her off after her mistress. 
Old Trevor himself could not have made a more grotesque contrast 
between the old life and the new; how the old man would have 
chuckled had he seen it! the great heiress shut up in the close fly — 
the somewhat frightened maid ensconced in the luxurious corner of 
the open carriage glittering along with a pair of fine horses, and all 
the prance and dance with which the coachman of a county family 
thinks it right to maintain the credit of his house in a country town 
— following the dustiest and stuffiest of flies. This was carrying out 
his principles on their broadest basis. Sir Thomas chuckled too; 
it was a piece of malice after his own heart. “ If that’s so, let’s 
show fight,” he said to himself. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE TERRACE. 

Four persons in a fly on a hot August day, one of them large, 
and warm, and “ worrited,” another very tall, with knees up to his 
chin, do not make a very agreeable party. Lucy, unaccustomed to 


234 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


traveling, had the whirl of the railway still in her head, and its 
dust oppressing her lungs and spirits; and she had the sensation of 
rush, and hurry, and crowding, which was peculiarly disagreeable 
to her orderly mind, and the uncomfortable consciousness of hav- 
ing abandoned her kind companion without a word. Indeed she 
seemed suddenly to have ceased to be a free agent. She had lost 
her independence, and even her personality, and had been carried 
off like a bale of goods, like a boy long-lost and suddenly found 
again, but no way consulted as to what was to be done with it. Was 
it this, or was it the mere vulgarity and discomfort of her sur- 
roundings. that made her heart sick? The fly had been the only 
vehicle she had known until six months ago, and the Fords her con- 
stant companions, and friendly notice from Mrs. Rushton, a thing 
highly prized and thought of. And she had only been six months 
away! But as Lucy drove in at the gloomy gateway of the little in- 
closure, which separated the Terrace from the road, and saw the 
well-known door open, and looked up wistfully at the well-known 
windows, there was no revulsion of happier feeling. “ Here we 
are at home, Jock,” she said faintly, trying to feel as happy as she 
ought to do. “ Is it?” said Jock indifferently. His little face was 
blank too; they had both fallen out of the clouds, down from the 
heights, and the contact with mother earth was hard. Lucy felt 
ashamed of herself that this should be, but she could not help it. 
It was all so different. Was it possible that the “ Aunty Ford ” of 
old was like this? Mrs. Ford was still wearing her mourning. 
She had crape flowers upon her bonnet, awful counterfeits of na- 
ture, corn flowers with stamens of prickly jet. Her shawl was hud- 
dled up about her neck, she had taken off her black gloves, as it 
was so warm, and her face was of a fine crimson. As for Ford, on 
the contrary, he was neatness itself. He wore a little checked tie 
very stiffly starched, and his waistcoat, and the thin legs which 
were so prominent, were of checked black and white in a large pat- 
tern. Mourning is not so necessary for a man as for a woman. 
Mrs. Ford’s crape flowers, with which her bohnet bristled, were in- 
tended for the highest respect. Lucy’s depressed sensations were 
enlivened by a wondering doubt whether she could prevail upon 
the good woman to abandon these unearthly flowers. Mrs. Ford 
was talking all the way. “ Did you see those Rushtons,” she said, 
“ making a dead set at Lucy the veiy first moment? one would 
have thought they would have had more pride, and that Raymond, 
that son of theirs! as if Lucy, with the best in London at her feet, 
would look twice at a Raymond? Oh, yes, you’ll see, they’ll be 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


235 


all down upon you like locusts, Lucy; not a young man in the 
town that won’t be tthrown at your head. It is your money they’re 
after— only your money. What is that carriage following behind 
us? It is coming here, I declare; it’s somebody that has got scent 
of you already — that’s what it is to be an heiress; but it can’t be 
so bad as what you’ve gone through in London.” 

“It is only Elizabeth,” said Lucy; “ Oh, how like Sir Tom! he 
has put her in the carriage; Elizabeth — that is my maid. Would 
you rather I had not brought a maid, Aunt Ford?” 

“ A maid — I never see the use of them. You could have had 
Jane to help you when you wanted any extra dressing,” said Mrs. 
Ford, with gloom on her countenance. “ What did I tell you, 
Ford? I said Lady Randolph would be sending some spy to keep a 
watch upon us. Do you call that a maid? sitting up as grand as 
possible in the carriage, as if she were the lady and you the servant. 
It’s like Sir Tom, is it? I don’t doubt but it’s like Sir Tom, 7ie’s 
well enough known about here. He’s not one you should ever 
have spoken to, or sat down in the same room with him, if my 
consent had been asked. Many’s the story 1 could tell about Sir 
Tom, as you call him; oh, I don’t doubt it’s quite like him! and 
many a one he has ruined with his smiling -wavs.” 

Jock had not been able so much as to open his book while he rat- 
tled along the Farafield streets in the fly, but he had not paid much 
attention to what was going on; now, however, moved by the prac- 
tical necessity of getting out of the carriage, he awoke to what was 
going on around him. He had heard the voice of Mrs. Ford in 
this same key before. And he looked up suddenly with a surprised 
but serious countenance. 

“ Why is Aunty Ford scolding, and us just come? Is it you, or 
is it me, Lucy?” the little fellow said. 

“ Me scolding! God forbid!” cried the excited woman, and in- 
stead of getting out of the fly, she cried, and then, in a voice broken 
with sobs, entreated their pardon. “ It’s all my anxiety,” she said, 
“ I can’t abide that anything but what’s good should come to you. 
I’d like to keep you safe, like the apple of my eye; and that’s what 
Ford thinks too.” 

This scene was rather an unpleasant beginning to the second chap- 
ter of life on which Lucy was now entering. She stood on the pave- 
ment before the familiar door, and tried to occupy the attention of 
Elizabeth, and keep her from observing Mrs. Ford’s agitation and 
tears. Elizabeth was too refined a person to take any notice. She 


236 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


was the very last improvement in the way of a maid, and could 
have written her mistress’s letters had that been desirable, a most 
useful attendant to ladies “ whose education had been neglected.” 
Lady Randolph had not been at all sure of Lucy’s grammar or her 
h’s when she secured such a treasure. But fortunately Elizabeth’s 
superiority went so far as to have convinced her of the inexpediency 
of taking any notice of her employer’s private affairs. She turned 
her back upon the fly, where Mrs. Ford was sobbing. She had the 
air of seeing nothing. 

“ Sir Thomas made me come in the carriage, Miss Trevor. I 
could not help it,” she said. 

“ It makes me so happy to see you at home again,” Mrs. Ford 
said, commanding herself. ‘‘It is silly, I know, but I can’t help 
crying when I am happy. Come and carry in Miss Lucy’s things, 
Jane. Isn’t it a pleasure to see her back again? And you follow 
me, my darling, and I’ll let you see what we have done for you,’ ’ 
she said, with some triumph. Lucy went upstairs with a serious 
face. She thought she knew what she would find there, everything 
the same, no difference except in one thing — the old man sitting by 
the chimney-corner, with the big blue folios open on the writing- 
table, spreading the “ Times ” on his knees, rubbing his hands as 
she came in, looking up at her with his spectacles pushed up on his 
forehead. He would not be there, but the place would be full of 
him and of his image. She took Jock’s hand into hers, and led 
him upstairs. It was a pilgrimage upon which the two orphan 
children were going. “ Come and see where papa used to sit,” she 
said. She had never made great demonstrations of sorrow, but 
her heart was full of her father and tears were in her eyes. 

Mrs. Ford received them at the door with a look of triumph; but 
it was with consternation that Lucy saw what had happened. The 
whole room had been transmogrified. The Fords had given all their 
minds, and a great deal of money, which was of more immediate 
value, to the great work. Wherever it had been blue now it was 
pink. White curtains, very stiff with starch fluttered at the win- 
dows. There was a great deal of gilding about— gilt cornices, 
gilt chairs, gilt cabinets, and over the mantel-piece an enormous gilt 
frame inclosing a portrait of old Trevor, which the good people 
had caused to be painted by a local artist from an old daguerreo- 
type, all with the kind intention of giving pleasure to Lucy. She 
gave a cry of dismay as she came in. Her father’s chair and his 
writing-table— objects which would have recalled him so much 
more tenderly than this portrait— had been carried away. In their 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 237 


place was what the upholsterer called a “ lady’s chair,” covered in 
one of the newest and most fashionable cretonnes, stout Mttle cupids 
disporting themselves on a pink ground, and a gilt and highly deco- 
rated work-table. Lucy stood at the door of the room with the 
checked tears feeling very hot and heavy behind her eyes. 

“This is all for you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford, restored to good 
humor by the satisfaction with which she regarded her work; 
“ everything in it has been done for you. We have been working 
at it these three months and more. If you had but heard us talking 
— ‘ Do you think she would like this? and do you think she’d like 
that?’ and Ford would say, ‘ I saw a little cabinet in William’s 
would just please Lucy, ’ or ‘ There’s some new curtains at Hems- 
don’s are the very thing.’ We’ve done nothing else these three 
months. I declare I don’t think I ever slaved so much in my life — 
to get carpets that matched and a nice chintz, and the rugs and 
everything. But we kept the two old white rugs. Mr. Hemsdon 
said they were beauties. I was determined,” said the good 
woman, “that you should find something just as pretty as your 
fine London drawing-rooms. ‘ She sha’n’t come home and find 
nothing but a dingy old place to sit in, and think my Lady Ran 
dolph’s is a paradise, ’ is what I said to Ford, and he backed me up 
in everything. And now here it is, Lucy, my darling, and it’s all 
for you, and I hope you’ll be as happy in it as I and Ford wish you 
to be. I couldn’t say more if I were to talk from this to Christmas,” 
Mrs. Ford concluded with a tremulous warmth of enthusiasm which 
arose partly from the delightful consciousness of giving her charge 
a pleasant surprise, and partly from a quiver of uncertainty as to 
whether Lucy’s delight would be equal to the occasion. She added 
instantaneously, in a tone which was ready to be defiant, “ You 
may have seen finer in London: I can’t say; but this I know, 
you’ll find nothing like it in Farafield, search where you may!” 

“Thank you, Aunt Ford,” said Lucy faintly. “It is very 
pretty — but — I was thinking of papa.” 

These words checked the rising disappointment and displeasure 
in the mind of Mrs. Ford, who, if not very refined in her percep- 
tions, was kind, and had a sincere if jealous affection for the girl 
committed to her care. She took Lucy into her arms and consoled 
her with much petting and caressing. “Yes, my pet, I knew you 
would feel it. Yes, my petty! Of course it brings it all back. But 
after the first you’ll find the change of the furniture very comfort- 
ing, ’ ’ Mrs. Ford said. 

Lucy did not know what to say when the first pangs of recollec- 


238 THE GKEATEST HEIEES8 IK EKGLAKD. 


tion were over. She went round the room and looked at every- 
thing, and did her best to praise. Six months ago she would have 
thought it all beautiful.. Even now she had no opinion on the mat- 
ter, or taste that she was aware of; but she had been six months 
away in a different atmosphere, and nothing could undo or change 
that fact. She said everything she could to show her gratitude. 
Whatever might be said about the curtains or the carpets, the kind 
ness was indisputable; and it was all very pretty, probably quite as 
nice as the other way; but it was different. That was all that w T as 
to be said — everything was different. She placed herself in the 
lady’s chair which stood in the place of her father’s old seat, and 
found it very comfortable. It was not comfort that was wanting; 
it was — Lucy did not know what — it was different. Where she sat 
she could see, through the windows and lines of the curtains, the 
White House shining in the afternoon sunshine, and the road across 
the common, still green with all the freshness of summer. It was 
very different from the burned-up parks and the rows of London 
houses, but not in the same way. 

“ It is all for you, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ford, not quite satisfied with 
the commendation she had received. “ For my part, there is noth- 
ing I like so well as my own parlor. It may be vulgar, but that’s 
my taste. I don’t want to be moving about all day long from the 
drawing-room to the dining-room. I like to feel myself at home. 
But you are young, and that’s a different thing. You have to do 
as other people do. There’s one thing — just one thing I can’t give 
in to: I can’t begin at my time of life to be eating my dinner when 
1 should be having my tea; tea’s far more to me than any dinner, I 
never was a great eater, and as for wine, I can’t abide it. A cup of 
tea and a bit of toast — that’s what I like. I’ll see to your dinner if 
you wish, like in your poor papa’s time, but I can’t change, that’s 
just the one thing I can’t do. ” 

“ I do not care for dinner,” said Lucy; “ I will do whatever you 
do, it does not matter to me.” 

“ If that’s so,” said Mrs. Ford brightening, and she came up to 
her charge and kissed her affectionately, “ whatever we can get, or 
whatever we can do to make you happy, Lucy, you have only to 
say it: nevermind the expense. If there is one thing you have a 
fancy for more than another, if it should be game, or whatever it 
is, .you shall have it. And this room is yours, my pet. You’ll ex 
cuse me sitting here; I think there’s nothing like my parlor; but 
when you want me you can always send for me. And here you 
shall always find eveiy thing kept nice; and as for a cup of tea, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


239 


whenever you want it — I shouldn’t wonder if you were kept very 
short up there.” 

Mrs. Ford jerked her thumb over her shoulder by way of indicat- 
ing Lucy’s former abode. “ I know what fine ladies are,” she said: 
“ a fine outside and not much within. Horses and carriages and 
all that show, and footmen waiting, and silver dishes on the table, 
but not much inside.” 

“ Lady Randolph was not like that,” Lucy said faintly. She did 
not know whether to laugh or to cry; but her companion took her 
hesitation as a proof of the correctness of her own judgment, and 
was triumphant. 

“ I know ’em,” she said. “ I don’t give myself any airs Lucy, 
but I know you’ll find nothing like that here. No show, but 
everything good, and plenty of it, and not so much fuss made about 
you — for we’ve got no ends to serve, Ford and me — but if there’s a 
thing you want you shall have it; that is our way, and I don’t see 
but what you may be very happy here. Keep all these folks that 
will be gathering round you, and making believe to adore you, at a 
distance, and keep yourself to yourself, and don’t put your faith in 
the Rushtons, nor the Stones, nor any of the Farafield folks; and I 
don’t see, Lucy my pet, but what you may be veiy happy here. 
And now, my darling, I’ll go downstairs and see after the tea.” 

Lucy was left alone accordingly, seated In the familiar room, so 
changed and transformed, and looking out somewhat drearily upon 
the common, which had not changed, which she had crossed so 
often in those old days that were never to come back, that could 
not come Dack, neither the simple habits of them, nor the gentle 
ease of mind and happy ignorance of everything beyond their quiet 
round. It was not a cheerful programme which ner present guard- 
ian had traced for her, and Lucy, sitting very still, not caring, to 
move, in the most strangely complete and depressing solitude which 
she had ever been conscious of, went further in her thoughts than 
Mrs. Ford. Had it all been a mistake? Her father’s favorite 
theory, his pet whim about her, his determination to divide her life 
between the different worlds of society, one part of it on the higher 
level, one on the lower, was that 1o prove itself at once a hopeless 
blunder? Lucy felt too much dulled and stupefied by the sudden 
change to be able to think about it; a sensation as of a sudden fall, 
a precipitate descent down, down, into a world she no longer 
understood, pervaded her being. Lady Randolph’s world had not 
been a very lofty one; was it possible that it was the mere external 
change from one kind of house to another, from a companion who 


240 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND* 


dressed with exquisite taste to one who huddled on her common 
clothes anyhow, and wore crape flowers in her bonnet; from old, 
soft, mossy Turkey carpets to brilliant modern Brussels, that gave 
her this sensation of downfall? Lucy did not ask herself the ques- 
tion, nor did it even suggest itself in any formal way to her mind, 
only a vague sense of the impossibility of the return, the radical 
change in all things, the space she had traversed which could not 
be gone back, overwhelmed her vaguely. If it had been a poor 
country cottage, a rustic farm-house, real poverty to contrast with 
the soft surroundings of wealth, the contrast might have been salu- 
tary, and it might have been natural. But the Terrace was nothing 
but a vulgar, unintelligent copy of the house she had come from, 
the life set before her now was but a poor imitation of that she had 
left, but narrowed and limited and shut in, cut off by jealous pre- 
cautions from all the human fellowship that made the other attract- 
ive. Ford and his wife, in their little stuffy parlor, at their tea- 
table, eating their toast and their shrimps, were as respectable in 
themselves as Lady Randolph at the head of the pretty table covered 
with flowers, softly lighted, and noiselessly served. Probably they 
were more honest, more strictly sincere, than she, and their love 
for Lucy was a very genuine love, more profound than her easy 
affections. But how was it? Lucy could not tell — to step down 
all in a moment from Lady Randolph to the Fords was something 
incomprehensible and impossible. She could not go back these six 
months, the^new life had claimed her; she was not capable of re- 
suming the old where she had left it off. This feeling humiliated 
and depressed her, she could not tell how or why. Had Ihey been 
jiving in a little cottage in the country, had they been quite poor, 
so that she should have had homely services to do for them, help to 
give, that would have been practicable; but to come back to the Ter- 
lace with her maid, and her horse, and her groom, and her new 
habits, to have all the indulgences without any of the graces of ex 
istence! Lucy sat sadly in the pink room, all newly bedizened and 
fine, dressed out by ignorance and kindness for Her pleasure, but 
not pleasing her at all, and pondered, dreary and down-hearted. 
Was it possible that papa himself had not understood? that he did 
not know what the real differences were, but had made to himself 
some picture of extravagant splendor on the one side, to be tem- 
pered by the Fords and their respectable parlor on the other? Alas! 
Lucy felt more and more, as she reflected, that poor papa did not 
understand. It made her heart sore to sit in the place where he had 
sat, and to contemplate this, and to feel that perhaps, as Sir 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


241 


Thomas had said, to follow out all those regulations of his, whir'll 
she had thought a happiness and consolation, might turn out noth- 
ing less than a bondage. Everything seemed somewhat blank be- 
fore her, as she sat thus solitary. She knew the routine so well, 
there was no margin of the unexpected, no novelty to carry her on. 
She had been so deep in thought that she had not felt a pull at 
her dress several times repeated. At last Jock could have patience 
no longer. 

“ I say,” he cried, looking up from his old position upon the 
great white rug, “ Lucy, it is not any good to think.” 

Lucy was not greatly given to that exercise of thinking, and, to 
tell the truth, she had not found it to be of very much use. 

“ What makes you say so, Jock?” 

“ Oh, because I have tried — often,” said the little fellow; “be- 
fore we went away from here, and after, when I went to school. 
It’s no good, you never find out anything; you wonder and won- 
der, but you never know any better. Do you think now,” said 
Jock, with a gleam of moisture in his eyes, “ that lie ever sees us 
now, or hears what we are talking about? I wonder — often — ” 

“ I — hope so, Jock,” said Lucy; but as she remembered what she 
had just been thinking she faltered a little, and was not so sure that 
this was desirable, as in the abstract it seemed to be. 

“ I wonder,” said the little boy — thoughts such as had filled her 
mind bad perhaps been vaguely floating across his firmament also. 

‘ ‘ I wonder — if he would miss his funny old table and his big blue 
paper if he were to come back now. ” 

“ He has now something better; we will not think of that any 
longer,” said Lucy, drying her wet eyes. 

“ But we have got to think of it,” said Jock, reflectively contra- 
dicting himself; “ that is funny, everything is funny. There is 
Aunty Ford at the foot of the stairs calling us to go down to tea.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

HOME AND FRIENDS. 

That very evening, notwithstanding her supposed fatigue, the 
little world of Farafield was roused to welcome Lucy. The rector 
and his wife, going out for a drive in the cool of the evening, drew 
up their pony at the door, and left a card and their kind regards, 
and hoped Miss Trevor was not tired with her journey; and a little 
later, when Lucy and Jock were preparing to stroll out as they 


242 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

had been in the habit of doing, upon the common, they were 
stopped by a visit from Mrs. Ilushton and her son and daughter. 
“We always come out after dinner in the hot weather,” the visitor 
explained, “ and it is so delightful to have an object for our walk. 
I hope you have had a good rest, my dear. What a pleasure, ’ ’ 
said Mrs. Rushton, taking Lucy’s hands in hers, and looking at her 
with enthusiasm, “ to see you at home again and looking so well!” 

Lucy was confused by the warmth and effusion of this unex- 
pected greeting. Her guardian’s wife had never taken much no- 
tice of her in the old days; but she was pleased at the same time, 
for affection is always pleasant, and it was agreeable to find that 
she had more friends than she was aware of. Raymond, of whom 
she remembered nothing, except that she had seen him at the rail- 
way station, was an ordinary young man, still in his morning suit, 
by license of the summer, and the after-dinner walk; and wholly 
undistinguishable from any other young man in that universal garb. 
He said, “ How d’ye do?” and taking his right hand out of his 
pocket, presented it to her, not without embarrassment. Lucy gave 
it him back at once with a great inclination to laugh. She 
felt herself a great deal older, and more experienced than Raymond, 
though he was two-and-twenty and had taken his degree. 

“ I hope you will not find Farafield dull,” said Mrs. Rushton; 
“ we must do what w.e can to make you like us, Lucy. Have you 
seen a good deal of society in town? Oh, I know you. could not go 
out; but Lady Randolph is always having company. I suppose 
you would meet her nephew, Sir Thomas. I hear he is expected at 
the Hall.” 

“Yes,” said Lucy. “He is on his way to Scotland. He came 
down here with us to-day.” 

“ Oh, he is on his way to Scotland? Isn’t this a little out of the 
way to Scotland, Ray? I know when we went we had to go a hun- 
dred miles round, your father said, to get to that big junction; but 
we can’t always calculate on Sir Thomas. He is a gay deceiver; 
with that jolly laugh of his, didn’t you quite fall in love with him, 
Lucy? I always say he is the most dangerous man I know.” 

“ I like him very much,” Lucy said. 

“ And so does Ray. He is quite captivating to young people. 
He has always been so kind to Ray. One forgets the little stories 
that are current about him when one comes under the spell. Did 
you like his aunt equally well, Lucy? Opinions are divided on that 
score.” 

“ She was very kind to me,” said Lucy; “ no one ever took so 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 343 

much care of me. She did not talk of it, hut one felt all round 
one — ’ ’ 

“ But still you did not care for her? That is what I have always 
heard— very kind, and that sort of thing; but not attractive.” 

“ Indeed, I am very fond of Lady Randolph,” Lucy said, with a 
flush of annoyance. Her visitor laughed and coughed, confused 
and disconcerted, though Lucy could not tell why. 

“ Oh, I only say what I have heard!” she said. “ I don’t know 
much of her myself. Sir Thomas is the only member of the family 
whom I know; and I always frankly admit I think him charming 
— whatever may be his little faults.” 

All this time Raymond stood swaying about from one leg to 
another, with his hands in his pockets. He had received the best 
of educations, as his mother proudly declared; but this had not 
conferred ease of manner or social grace. Lucy could not help 
longing that ne would sit down; but it seemed to be against the 
young man’s principles. He stood between her and the window, 
swaying about like a cloud upon the wind, but solid enough to shut 
out the light. Miss Rushton was a very big girl of sixteen in short 
frocks, who kept half behind her mother, and took shelter under 
her wing. 

‘ ‘ And what are you going to do, my dear, now you have come 
back? I hope we shall see a great deal of you. You will find 
yourself a little lost here just for the first The Fords are excel- 
lent people, but you will find yourself a little lost. You must run 
over to us whenever you feel dull. To-morrow there is some cro- 
quet going on — are you fond of croquet? You must come early 
and have a game, and stay to dinner. In 1 his hot weather we never 
dress for dinner, for we always have a walk in the cool of the 
evening. Is that a bargain?” said Mrs. Rushton graciously. “ And 
you must bring little Jock. Do you walk with him as you used to 
do, Lucy? I think, as a girl, you were the very best sister in the 
world.” 

“ Jock and I ride,” said Lucy; “ he was always fond of riding. 
Lady Randolph sent the horses and the groom, and Jock’s pony. 
She thought I might have them here.” 

“ Certainly, Lucy,” Mrs. Rushton said, with many nods of her 
head. “ That I am sure your guardians would approve. And 
what a lucky thing for you, Ray! Now you can get up all sorts of 
delightful parties. Emmy is beginning to ride very nicely too, 
and you like it, don’t you, dear? They will be so glad to join. I 
am so delighted to hare found something in which you can all join. ” 


244 THE GREATEST HEIEESS IN EHGLAtfD. 


“ It will be very jolly,” said Raymond. That and “ How d’ye 
do?” was all that he contributed to the conversation. And Emmy 
said nothing at all, except in shy murmurs of assent, and stifled 
explosions of laughter when her mother said anything she thought 
amusing. The two young people preceded Mrs. Rushton down- 
stairs when she had said all she had to say; but she came back 
again, once more seized Lucy’s two hands, and added a parting 
word in her ear. 

“ I see that friend of yours, that Mrs. Stone, coming this way. 
She is very well in her own place, Lucy; oh, very nice! I thought 
she behaved badly to me about Emmy; but that is neither here nor 
there. Everybody speaks very highly of her — in her own place. 
But you must not let her get you into her hands, dear. She is 
dreadfully managing, and by hook or by crook she will have her 
own way. But you are in a different sphere altogether. Don’t for- 
get, my dear Lucy, that you are in a different sphere. I felt that I 
must just say this. You know what an interest I take in you. 
Dear child!” said Mrs. Rushton with enthusiasm, giving Lucy a 
sudden and tender kiss of irrestrainable feeling; “ who would not 
take an interest in you, so young and so nice and so lonely? Till to- 
morrow, dear — ” 

Mrs. Stone met Mrs. Rushton going down. “So it is true that 
Lucy has come back,” said that able tactician. “ I heard a rumor, 
and was coming to inquire, when they told me she was here.” 

“Just come. My husband being her guardian, I felt that she 
had a special claim upon me, poor dear child. I am afraid she is 
tired with her journey, and agitated with all the associations. I 
have only been there a moment; I would not stay. I felt it was 
kindness to postpone a longer visit.” 

“ Thank you for the hint,” said Mrs. Stone, calmly pursuing her 
way upstairs; and she too took Lucy into her arms, if not with 
enthusiasm, yet with the most affectionate interest; she kissed her, 
and then held her at arm’s length, and looked into her face. “ You 
are very welcome back, my dear,” she said, “ but, Lucy, there is 
something new in your face.” 

“ Is there?” said Lucy faintly. “lama little tired; and then 
there are so many other things that are new.” 

Mrs. Stone looked round the room, with such disdain of the 
shop upholstery as was natural to a woman who possessed a parlor 
furnished with Chippendales. She said, “Ah, I see they have 
been doing something here;” then added, “ Lucy, you must not 
trifle with me; it is not that. But,” she said, “ your hat is on the 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


245 


table; you were going out? it is a sweet evening, and we can talk 
just as well on the common. Come, and we will discuss the whole 
matter out of doors.” 

Lucy was grateful to be released, for the night was warm, and 
Jane, Mrs. Ford’s maid, had come up with a taper in her hand, and 
was threatening to light the gas. Mrs. Ford was determined that 
Lucy should want for nothing, and no consideration of time or 
season was permitted to interfere with the proper hours for doing 
everything in Ihis well-regulated house. Therefore, though it was 
somewhat late for Jock, Lucy put on her hat gratefully, and 
suffered her hand to be drawn through the arm of her considerate 
friend, and drew a long and grateful bieath as she got out upon the 
breezy sweep of the common, which even in the twilight showed a 
faint flush of the heather. “ How sweet it is! this is the one thing 
which is unchanged,” she said. 

“ Do you find the place changed, Lucy?” 

“ Perhaps it is me, Mrs. Stone.” 

“You should say I, my love. Yes, no doubt it is you, Lucy. It 
could not oe otherwise; you have been in so different a sphere, and 
how could you help feeling it? I think I can understand you. Lady 
Randolph is — well, I don’t know what she is. I confess that I have 
a little prejudice against her.” 

“Indeed, you should not have any prejudice,” said Lucy ear- 
nestly; “ she is so good and so kind — oh, far too good and kind for 
anything I deserve.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Stone with a smile. “ I understand; a woman 
with a great deal of tact, Lucy, who knows what is best for you, 
and takes her measures accordingly; oh, yes, I am quite sure Lady 
Randolph is highly refined, and a thorough lady, and would do 
nothing that was unbecoming, whereas our good Mrs. Ford is just 
— Mrs. Ford, and a very good woman. I think it would have been 
better, Lucy — w6 have all our little vanities — if your excellent fa- 
ther had sent you to me.” 

“ Yes,” said Lucy with a sigh; but there was no enthusiasm in 
the assent. Mrs. Stone was slightly disappointed. She gave the 
girl’s arm a soft pressure. 

“ You must let us help you to get through this second beginning: 
things will never be so bad again. You will get used to the altera- 
tion, and your interests will spring up. What are you doing about 
little Jock, my dear?” 

“ Nothing,” said Lucy; “ he is still so little, and I have no one 
else. Do you think, really, I ought to send him, such a little fel- 


246 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


low, away from me to some real school? He was at Mi’s. Russell’s, 
but that was not like a re al school, and I went to see him whenever 
I liked.” 

‘Ah! perhaps too often,” said Mrs. Stone, with another press- 
ure of her young friend’s arm. “ I have something to say about 
that after. But, Lucy, listen. I will tell you what I was thinking. 
Frank St. Clair, whom you may remember, my nephew, is coming 
to stay with me again. He is not very well, poor fellow! I will 
tell you his story some time. He has been unfortunate.” 

“ He who was so kind, who came to see papa?” 

“ Your father interested him so much, dear! He used to come 
back and tell me all the clever acute things he said. Yes, Frank 
St. Clair. This is one of my disappointments, Lucy. Frank was 
the pride of all our family. We all seemed to have a share in him; 
his father died young, his mother was poor, and we all helped. He 
was the cleverest boy I ever saw. At school he was extraordinary ; 
no one could stand against him, and you can imagine how proud 
we all were. Am I boring you with my story, Lucy?” 

“ How could you think so? I am like Jock about a story; there 
is nothing I like so much, especially if at the end there is was any- 
thing — anything that could be done.” 

“ I don’t know what you could do, my dear,” Mrs. Stone said, 
with a smile, “ but your sympathy is sweet. He was not quite so 
successful at the University, there is such competition, but still he 
did very well, and also in his work at the bar. For he is a barris- 
ter,” said Mrs. Stone, with a thrill of pride in her voice, “ he has 
been called, and was just at the beginning of his career, when his 
health failed. Can you imagine such a disappointment* such a 
commentary upon the vicissitudes of life! Just when he was in a 
position to justify all our hopes his health gave way.” 

‘‘I am so sorry,” Lucy looked up at her friend with the pro- 
foundest pity in her blue eyes, but something else besides, a spark 
of hidden interest, the gleam with which an explorer s eyes shine 
when he finds some new sphere of discovery, a new world to con- 
quer. Lucy had not been very happy in her first venture, but she 
jumped at the thought of a second venture, if it might be found 
practicable. It was she now who pressed Mrs. Stone’s arm, cling- 
ing closely to it “I am so sorry! 1 hope he may soon get better. 
Is there nothing that could be done?” 

“ Rest is all lie wants, my dear, rest and a relief from anxiety, 
and something to do quietly, that will not strain him. As soon as 
I knew you were coming back 1 immediately thought of Jock. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


247 


Poor Frank is very independent; he would be less unhappy if he 
had something to do. And it is providential for you, for Jock must 
begin to have something done for his education; I consider it quite 
providential for you.” 

“ If Mr. St. Clair would be so kind. But would he like it, a gen- 
tleman, and a lawyer, and so clever?” said Lucy, puzzled. “ Jock 
is such a little, little fellow.” 

** He will take Jock,” said Mrs. Stone, with tranquil assurance. 
“ He would not take any little boy, of course, but Jock is excep- 
tional, Jock is your brother, and you know my interest in you* 
Lucy. Yes, my dear, do not be afraid, Frank will take Jock. And 
now that this is settled— and I wanted to make your mind easy on 
the subject — let us talk of other things. What is all this story about 
the Russells, Lucy? You have not allowed Bertie to — he ha? not, 
I hope, really acquired any — It is so difficult to speak to you on 
such a subject, but you know I am a kind of guardian too. I 
should not approve of Bertie Russell. I could never give my con- 
sent — ” 

“To what?” said Lucy, with great surprise. “Is it about his 
book, Mrs. Stone? It was not my fault, indeed, it was not any 
one’s fault. I suppose he never thought that people would take 
any notice. It was just a mistake, a foolish lliing to do. I think 
even Lady Randolph, though she was so angry, got to see that at 
last.” 

“ Then there is nothing more, Lucy; you can assure me, on your 
word, that there is nothing more?” 

Lucy was more surprised than ever. 

“ What should there be more?” she said. 

Mrs. Stone laughed, and made no reply. 

“ So Lady Randolph was angry,” she said. “ I don’t wonder; 
so was I. We all have the same feeling toward you, Lucy,” and 
here Mrs. Stone laughed again, evidently perceiving a humorous 
aspect of the question which was unknown to Lucy. “ We are all 
so— fond of you, my dear. Did you see much of the Randolph 
family when you were there?” 

“Only Sir Tom.” 

“Only Sir Tom! that makes you smile. By the way, he is all 
the Randolph family, I believe; and he is nice, Lucy? I have met 
him, and I thought him very pleasant; but he has not a very good 
character, I am afraid. He has been what people call wild; but 
now that he is getting old, no doubt he is mending his ways.” 

Mrs. Stone gave Lucy a keen glance of inquiry as she said this; 


248 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


but as a matter of fact, Lucy at eighteen honestly thought Sir 
Thomas old, and made no protest, which satisfied her friend. She 
said, after a pause, 

“ Now I have a pleasant surprise to give you. Katie Russell is 
here; I am looking for a situation for her. She has finished her 
education, and I wish to place her in a thoroughly nice family.” 

“ Oh,” cried Lucy, with pained surprise, “ I thought that Mrs. 
Russell — I thought that now they were all to be at home.” 

“ Since she came into that money? Oh, no, it is not enough for 
that; besides, even if it were more than it is, Katie ought to do 
something to make a life for herself. It was a great godsend, the 
money, but it is not enough for any great change in their life.” 

“I thought — it was enough to live on,” said Lucy, feeling a 
great flush of shame come over her face. It had not given her 
much satisfaction in any way, but to hear that it was a failure alto- 
gether struck her a very keen and unexpected blow. 

“ Oh, no, my dear, no,” said Mrs. Stone, all unaware of Lucy’s 
interest in the matter; “ a pittance! merely enough to give them a 
little more comfort, joined to what they have.” 

Lucy went home rather subdued after this interview. She did 
not see Katie, who was out with Miss Southwood, and she was 
rather glad to escape that meeting. She called Jock back from his 
wanderings among the heather, and led him home, with his little 
arms twined round hers. Lucy felt very much subdued, perhaps 
because she was tired. She drew little Jock very close to her, and 
felt something like the twilight dimness stealing into her mind. 

“ Are you tired?” she said; “ you ought to be in bed. I think I 
am tired too; Jock, are you glad to be at home?” 

“ I don’t know if it’s home,” said Jock, looking up at her with 
his big eyes. 

“ Nerither do I,” said Lucy drearily. “ But it is all we have for 
home,” she added, with a sigh. “Anyhow, it is you and me, 
Jock; things can not be so very bad so long as there is you and 
me.” 

To this Jock assented with a reservation. 

“ I suppose I shall have to go to school, Lucy; all the other fel- 
lows go to school.” 

“ I have got a tutor for you, dear; you will not have to go away. 
Mr. St. Clair, that used to come and see papa. It is providential, 
Mrs. Stone says.” 

“ What, that fat fellow in the black coat? I don’t mind,” said 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EtfGLAHD. 249 

Jock. “ I think he is a duffer, he’s so fat; but I don’t mind. You 
don’t know what that means, Lucy.” 

“You should not say such naughty words; that is what you 
learned at school,” said Lucy, with disapproval. “I don’t think 
you learned anything else there.” 

“Duffer is not a naughty word: it means just nothing; but I 
don’t mind him at all,” said Jock, with indulgence. He was quite 
willing to undergo the experiment. “ I should like to have another 
1ry,”hesaid. 

When they got to the house it was as dark as an August evening 
ever is, and Mrs. Ford, with a candle in her hand, was beginning to 
fasten up the windows and doors. She had again put on her stern 
aspect, and looked very severe and solemn, as she followed them 
upstairs. “ It is a great deal too late for that child,” she said. “ He 
ought to have been in bed an hour ago. So you have had visitors, 
Lucy? I think they might have been so civil as to ask for me. 
After all, though the house may be kept for your convenience, it’s 
me that am the mistress of it. And I expect civility, if there’s 
nothing more to be looked for. I do expect that.” 

“ I am very sorry, Aunt Ford.” 

“You must be something more than sorry. You must let them 
see you won’t stand it. As for that Mrs. Rushton, I think she is 
insufferable. She wants to keep you in her set. And Raymond, 
what does he want here the first evening? You never knew Ray 
Rushton; whatever they may say, don’t you put any faith in them, 
Lucy. She’s a designing woman; and I mistrust her, bringing her 
son the first day.” 

“You tell me to put no faith in Mrs. Rushton, and she tells me 
to beware of Mrs. Stone, and they both shake their heads about 
Lady Randolph, ” said Lucy, with a smile that was not happy. 
“ If I am to do what you all tell me, don’t you think, Aunt Ford, 
I shall be very lonely? for these are all the friends I have.” 

“My pet,” said Mrs. Ford, “don’t you be afraid; you : ll get 
friends in plenty; friends always turn up for a girl who is — a good 
girl,” she added, after a momentary pause. Perhaps she had 
not intended originally to conclude her sentence in this simple and 
highly moral way. 


250 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EXGLAXD. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

CHANGED. 

Lucy spent two or three days after this in comparative solitude. 
Her friends, both the Rushtons and Mrs. Stone, agreed in feeling 
that it would be indecorous to, make any rush at her. It was a sug- 
gestion forced upon each of them by the too great eagerness of the 
other, and both concluded that it would be well to adopt a more 
dignified course, and to leave her to herself for the moment. Katie 
Russell had gone on a visit of two or three days’ duration, and 
Lucy found herself thus at full liberty to realize her loneliness. 
The weather, as it happened, was very hot, and Jock and she were 
shut up for the greater part of the day in the glaring room, where 
there was no provision for very hot weather, no sun-blinds or shut- 
ters, but everything open to the blazing sun in the day, and all 
lighted up with blazing gas at night. When after those long and 
weary days, little Jock went tired and cross to bed, unwilling to 
go, yet glad to get the day over, his sister sat alone in the pink 
drawing-room in the unshadowed flood of the gaslight, and thought 
with the tenderest longing of all she had left behind, and with a 
sinking at her heart beyond describing, of all that was before her. 
The Fords were in their parlor below, which they preferred, he 
reading his paper, she mending stockings tranquilly, at the table 
with its oil-cloth cover. Lucy had not required any derangement 
of their habits. She sat with them meekly at table, without asking 
for anything beyond what they chose to give her; but she had 
found at once that, after the repast was over, she was expected to 
return to her own luxurious apartment, the room which they were 
proudly conscious had cost more than any other room in Farafield, 
not to speak of the trouble that had been taken over it, and in which 
there was a piano and books, and all the things with which girls 
are supposed to be amused. Lucy had been called upon by two of 
the most important people in Farafield, she had taken several walks 
and one ride, and many substantial meals had been set before her at 
their comfortable table; what could any girl in her senses want 
more? And now she had that beautiful drawing-room to return 
to, where there was provision for both mind and body, sofas to re- 
pose upon and a piano to play, and books to read, and where she 
could certainly gratify herself with the consciousness of being mis- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


251 


tress of a room which had not its equal in Farafield. Mrs. Ford 
saw no reason why she should give up her own evening leisure, the 
purring quiet of that final hour before bed-time, when she sat con- 
tent after supper was over, and all the affairs of the day concluded. 
She did her duty by Lucy. She bought sweetbread^ and other 
delicacies, instead of the beefsteak which was so much cheaper, 
and which Ford liked just as well as the greatest dainty. She 
spared no expense upon her guest. She was ready to give her a cup 
of tea half a dozen times a day. She had planned a variety of 
puddings, that there might be something different at every meal; 
and, to conclude, she had given Lucy the best of advice. What 
could she be expected to do more? 

But Lucy sat very disconsolate in front of the shining steel fire- 
place filled up with shavings, amid that blaze of gas, without even 
the little stir of a fire which might have given companionship at 
another season. She felt like a stranded sailor, like some one 
shipwrecked on a very clean, bright, polished desert island, where, 
however, there was not even the consolation of struggling for your 
living to keep you alive. She pondered all things that had hap- 
pened, and that were going to happen, ft had given her a painful 
sensation to hear Mrs. Stone speak of the Russells, and of the money 
which had come to them, which was just enough to enable them to 
live in comfort, as Lucy had intended. Had that been a failure, 
that first effort? And then she thought of the new claimant, the 
poor gentleman whom Mrs. Stone had hoped might be lord chancel- 
lor one day, and who was only able to be tutor to Jock. Surely it 
would be a right thing 1o give him enough to remove anxiety, as 
Mrs. Stone had said. And this time Lucy thought she would take 
care that there was enough, that no one should say it was a pit- 
tance. This idea made her face glow with as much shame as if she 
had cheated these poor people, to whom she had meant to be kind. 
How was she to know what was enough? especially for a gentle- 
man. Oh, Lucy thought, if I could but ask some one! If some 
one would but tell me! But who was there whom she could con- 
sult on such a subject? Her guardians, instead of helping her, 
would certainly do all they could to hinder. They would put every 
kind of obstacle in her way. Instead of aiding her to make her 
calculations and ascertain how much was wanted, they would beat 
her down to the last penny, and try to persuade her that half of 
what she wanted to give would do. How difficult was this com- 
mission she held, this office of dispenser, almoner of posthumous 
bounty! Oh, if her father had but done it himself! he was old, he 


252 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


had experience, he must have known much better than she could 
know. But here Lucy stopped short and bethought herself of the 
conclusion that had been forced upon her, that poor papa did not 
understand. The world in which her timid footsteps were finding 
out painfully unaccustomed tracks was one of which even his keen 
eyes had not found out the conditions. In her stumblings and grop- 
ings she had already discovered more than his threescore and ten 
years of keen, imperfect theory had taught him. And now it was 
her part to suffer all the inconveniences and vexations which in his 
ignorance he had fixed upon her life. It never occurred to Lucy 
to make any effort to escape from them, or even to remain quiescent 
and refrain from doing the difficult things he had left her to do. 
She was determined to execute his will in every detail. Should 
she die even of this ennui and loneliness, she would yet bear it until 
the appointed moment; and, though she might have no more suc- 
cess than with the Russells, still she must flounder on. If she could 
only find somebody to help her, to give her a little guidance, to tell 
her how much, not how little, she ought to give? There was one 
indeed who might be a help to her, who would understand. But 
was it possible that even Sir Tom had deserted her? Three days, 
and he had not come to see her? At this thought there came into 
Lucy’s eyes something that felt very like a tear. 

This, however, was the last of these silent days. In the morning 
Katie Russell burst upon her, all radiant with pleasure. “ Oh, 
what a lucky girl you are!’' Katie cried; “ you have got all we 
used to talk of, Lucy, I never thought it would come true; but here 
you are, just looking the same as ever, though you have been living 
among swells; and come down to dazzle us ad at Farafield, with 
beautiful horses, and heaps of money, and everybody after you. 
To think that all this should have happened to you, and nothing at 
all to me!” 

Lucy did not like her friend’s tone. What had come over her 
that everything seemed to hurt her? I don't think very much 
has happened to me,’- she said. “ What has happened was all be- 
fore I left here.” 

Katie shook her head and her curly locks till she had almost 
shaken them off. “ I know a great deal more than you think. I 
know what you were doing in London, and how you went riding 
about, and turning people’s heads. What a lucky girl you are, 
with everything that heart can desire! I don’t envy you, not 
wicked envy, because you are always as good as gold, and never 
give yourself airs; but you are a lucky girl You don’t even know 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 253 

how different we poor ones are. I have never turned any one’s 
head,” said Katie, with a sigh. 

“ Do not talk of anything so silly,” said Lucy, blushing, she did 
not quite know why. “ I think you are laughing at me; and to 
laugh at me is not kind, for I am not clever as you are, and can not 
make fun of you, Katie, tell me all about yourself, what you are 
doing; and tell me how they all are at Hampstead, and if they have 
got into the new house.” 

“I am doing — I don’t know what I am doing,” said Katie, 

' dancing attendance on Mrs. Stone and old Southernwood. They 
are going to get me a situation in some nice family. I wish the nice 
family would turn up, for I am very tired waiting and wasting my 
holidays in this old place. It is nice being here? Oh, I know 
what you will say' it is very nice, and I am very ungrateful- but 
though it is nice it is a school, Lucy and mamma does not want 
me at home, and I have got no other place to go. Lady Langton 
has been very kind; she asked me to go there for three days. But 
it’s dreary always coming back to school, for the White House is 
only school when all is said. They are all right at Hampstead, so 
far as I know. Did you hear what happened? Mamma has come 
into some money. It is not a very great sum, but it is a great 
help. It was some old relations, that no one had ever thought of, 
and mamma says it might just as well have been the double, for 
they were dreadfully rich. But anyhow it has been a great help. 
With what she had before, I believe they have quite enough to live 
on now, without doing anything,” Katie said with a little pride. 

To all this Lucy listened with a countenance void of all expres- 
sion. She had been half afraid of her friend’s gratitude; but there 
was something in this complete ignorance which was very bewilder- 
ing. And when she looked at her own generosity through Katie’s eyes, 
so to speak, and saw it on the othei side, she felt, too, that “ it might as 
well have been the double, ” and contemplated her own action with a 
mixture of shame and regret, instead of the satisfaction which she had 
vainly felt at first And this little discovery made her first wound 
smart all the more. A certain fear crept over her She would have 
liked to stop her ears from further revelations had she been able. But 
as that was impossible, Lucy listened patiently, with a blank coun- 
tenance, trying hard to dismiss all appearance of feeling from her 
face. 

“ Mamma would like me to stay at home too,” Katie continued 
“ She can not bear me to be a governess. But 1 could not do it; 
stay at home and sink down into Hampstead tea-parties — oh, I could 


254 : THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


not do it! If I get into a good family, Maud and the others will 
stand by me, and I shall have some fun at least and see life. To 
have only enough to live on, and to live at Hampstead, is more than 
I could put up with. Bertie, he has gone into chambers; he doesn’t 
live with mamma now. I don’t blame him, do you, Lucy? It must 
have been so slow for him, a young man. And now he has some 
money of his own, of course he has himself to think of. He is al- 
ways ” — Katie said slowly, watching her friend’s face — “ always 
talking of you.” 

Lucy did not make any response; but she was surprised by this 
unexpected change in the strain, and looked up involuntarily, with 
a half inquiry in her eyes. 

“Oh, constantly!” said Katie, with a mixture of natural mis- 
chief and more serious purpose, not quite able to give up the pleas- 
ure of laughing at her companion, yet very seriously determined to 
help her brother. “He says you are cross about that dedication. 
How could you be cross about it? such a lovely dedication, making 
you into a famous person all at once! It is just the same as Dante 
did, and Petrarch, and all the poets, Bertie says. And it has 
brought him luck. Lucy, do you mind? He wants so much to 
come down here.” 

“ Why should I mind?” Lucy asked. Bertie Russell had floated 
out of her recollection; why should his movements concern her? 
even the dedication, and all the annoyance it had brought, affected 
her no more. 

“That is quite true, why should you mind?” Katie said, with 
some pique. “ One more or less doesn’t matter, when there are so 
many. He wants to come down and study the scenery for his next 
book. He means to lay the scene here; won’t it be exciting? Peo 
pie will be sure to say he has studied the characters too. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think there are many characters here,” Lucy said. 

“Oh, don’t you think so? If I were to write a book I know 
whom I should put in; ^he Missis and little Southernwood, and 
that fat St. Clair; and old mademoiselle finding out everything 
about everybody. Oh, 1 should soon make up a book if I could 
write— I wish I could write,” cried Katie, with flashing eyes. 

Was it really so? Was Katie vulgar too? Lucy felt herseli 
shrink involuntarily. She asked herself whether, in the old school 
girl days, there had been chatter like this which had not disgusted 
her, or if Katie had deteriorated. 

“ Do not speak so,” she said, “ Katie, it is not like you.” 

“ Oh, yes, it is quite like me, I always was wicked, you were 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


255 


the good one, Lucy. I hope Bertie will take them all off; and I 
hope you will not be cross to him, Lucy; that would take all the 
heart out of him. Poor old Bertie! he thinks you are an angel, 
that is all he knows.” 

‘"lam never cross/' said Lucy, wounded. What had happened 
tc her? Had her eyes been anointed by that disenchanting touch 
which turns all the glories of fairyland into dross and tinsel? or 
was she really cross with everybody and out of tune? She could 
not tell herself which it was. 

“ You are cross now,” cried Katie, growing red; and then the 
hasty tears started to her eyes, and she complained that her friend 
was “ changed.” What could Lucy say? either it was true, or it 
was Katie that was changed. “You are a great lady now, ” the 
girl cried, “ with grand friends and everything you wish for; and I 
am only a poor governess, not fit company for you.” 

This reproach went to Lucy’s heart. She could not defend her- 
self from such an accusation; it took her entirely without defense, 
without the power of saying anything for herself; and she had never 
had any quarrels in the old days. Thus the two girls parted, Katie 
running across the common with red eyes, in high dudgeon, 
though there was so little cause for it, while Lucy stood at the win- 
dow looking after her piteously, and with an aching heart. 
Changed! yes, everything was changed, either within or without; 
but which poor Lucy could not tell. She scarcely knew how long 
she stood there, and she was so occupied with Katie and the pang 
of this parting with her that she did not see another visitor ap- 
proaching from the town, though he was a very welcome visitor 
indeed. When she heard his voice coming up the stair her heart 
jumped with pleasure. He had not deserted her then, and gone 
away without seeing her. She turned round and opened the door 
of the drawing-room in the simplicity of her pleasure. 

“Iam so glad to see you,” she said with fervor; and Sir Tom 
came in smiling, with every appearance of being glad to see her 
too. 

“ I thought it best not to come too soon,” Sir Thomas said, 

“ or your old lady did not like the looks of me, Miss Lucy. Per- 
haps, I thought, she might like me even worse than my looks; but 
this is luck to find you alone.” 

“ Oh, but I am always alone,” said Lucy, her countenance fall- 
ing. “ This is not like Grosvenor Street, Sir Thomas; most of the 
time I see nobody at all; and when people come they say that I am 
changed.” 


256 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND* 


“ Somebody has been vexing you,” said Sir Thomas, with his 
sympathetic look. ‘‘Never you mind, no one who really knows 
you will think you changed; and I hope you are happy on the 
whole, among your old friends.” 

Lucy shook her head. 

“ It is not that they are not kind,” she said; *' they are all very 
kind — but they will not permit me to think that other people are 
kind too; every one bids me to beware of some one else. You 
laugh, but I could cry; and it makes me that I don’t know what to 
do ” 

“ They bid you beware of me? Well, I suppose that was to be 
expected,” Sir Thomas said, with a laugh. 

44 Oh, not only of you, but of each other; and Aunt Ford warns 
me against them all. Well, it is amusing, I suppose,” said Lucy, 

but it does not amuse me,” and the tears came into her eyes. 

44 My dear little girl (I am an uncle, you know), things will 
mend,” said Sir Tom. 44 Come, tell me what they say of me. Did 
they say I was an extravagant fool, and had wasted all my living 
like a prodigal? Alas! that is true, Lucy. It may be uncharitable 
to say it, but the ladies are quite right; and if it were not for that 
excellent plan of the uncle, perhaps, as they tell you, it would be 
better for you to have nothing to do with me.” 

44 1 do not believe that,” cried Lucy, almost with vehemence. 
And then she paused and looked at him anxiously, and, with a 
crimson color gradually coming ovei her face, asked in a low tone. 
44 Sii Thomas, do not be angry; are you poor f >% 

He grew red, too, with surprise, but then laughed. 

44 Well,” he said, 4 4 yes, for my position I certainly am. When 
a man has a great house to keep up, and a number of expenses, if 
he is not rich he must be poor.” 

44 Ah! but 1 don't think that could be what papa meant,” cried 
Lucy, with a profound sigh. 

44 1 can not tell, nor what you mean either, my little Lucy,” he 
said. 44 1 feel very much like an old uncle to-day, so you must par- 
don the familiarity; you are so little, and so young, and I am so 
fletri, with crows -feet beyond counting. Lucy, I have come to bid 
you good-bye, I am going to Scotland, you know.” 

4 Oh!” said Lucy, her countenance falling. 44 1 hoped — we 
hoped— you were not going directly. So long as you were near, I 
fell that there was some one— Must you really go, Sir Tom?” 

Neither of them noticed at the moment the sudden familiarity 
into which they had fallen, and Lucy’s dismay was so candid that 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 557 

it was all Sir Tom could do to keep from a caress, such as would 
have been very appropriate to his assumed character, but not very 
consistent with the partial guardianship he had been trusted with. 

“ It is very sweet of you to be sorry,” he said, rising and walk- 
ing to the window, where he stood looking out for a moment with 
his back to her, “ but I am afraid I must go; at all events, it will 
be better for me to go. If you want anything very urgently, write 
to me, or send me a telegram; but I don’t suppose you will have 
any very pressing necessities,” he said, turning round with a smile 

“ No,” said Lucy, very downcast; “ oh, it is not that. I have not 
any necessities; I wish I had. It is just — it is only — one wants 
some one to speak to, some one tc tell — ” 

She was so disappointed that there came a little quiver into her 
lips and quaver in her tone. Had he been right? Was it really 
true that she was no more in love with him than he was with his 
old aunt? Sir Thomas was only human, and an amiable vanity 
was warm in him. A pleasant little thrill of surprise and gratitude 
went through his heart. Was it perhaps possible? But Lucy made 
haste to add, 

“You are the only person that I could tell something to — some- 
thing that is on my mind. My guardians know, so it is not quite, 
quite a secret; but no one else knows; and when I go to them they 
always oppose me— at least they did everything they could against 
me the one time, and I thought if I could tell you, who are a gen- 
tleman, and have experience, it would be such a comfort, and per 
haps you could guide me in doing what I have to do. Papa did not 
say I was to tell nobody. I am sure he would have liked me to 
have some one to stand by me, since you are so kind to me. Sir 
Tom.” 

“ You may calculate upon me, Miss Lucy. What is it? or do 
you want to tell me now, when I am going away?” 

His tone was cooled, chilled. Lucy did not quite know how, but 
she felt it.-* Almost for the first time since she had known him, Sir 
Thomas looked at her with no wavering of expression in his face, 
no twinkle in his eye. 

“ It will perhaps— be a bore to you,” she said, chilled too, and 
hesitating. 

“ You learned that word in town,” he said, melting and relaxing 
into his habitual laugh. “ Come, tell me; when I know, then I 
shall be able to advise, and you will find me infallible. Something 
you r guardians oppose ? then I suppose it must be a desire you have 


258 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


to be kind to other people, Lucy. They could not refuse you any 
little wants of your own. 1 ’ 

“ How clever you are, Sir Tom!” said Lucy lighting up; “ that 
is just what it is. Papa left me a great deal of money— I believe it 
is really a great deal of money— to give away. Perhaps you may 
have noticed that 1 have been rude, very rude, in asking if people 
were — poor.” 

“You asked me so ten minutes ago,” he said. 

“ Oh, you must not think I meant— Sir Thomas, papa says in 
his will— and he has said it to me often— not to waste the money, 
giving a little here, and a little there, but when I could find out a 
fit occasion to provide for somebody, to put them quite above want ’ 

“ And the thought crossed your sweet little soul,’' he said, with 
one of his big laughs, “ my dear child! to provide for me.” 

“No! Oh, no! I never could have been so impertinent; indeed 
that was not what I meant; only it flashed across me how much 
better, if I could, to give it to some one I liked, than to some one I 
knew nothing about and didn’t care for; but then it was not to be 
people I cared for— only people who were poor.” 

“ Lucy, do you care for me?” 

“ Very much, Sir Tom,” she said, with a brightness quite un- 
usual to her, turning upon him eyes which met his with perfect 
frankness and calm. Will it be believed that Sii Thomas was ut- 
terly disgusted by this quite candid, affectionate, innocent response? 

“Ah! that is precisely what I said,” he muttered to himself, 
jumping up impatiently from his chair; then he laughed and sat 
down again. 

“ Well, well, tell me how I can help you. This money is to be 
spent on the deserving poor. In short, it is a charitable fund. ’ 

‘ ‘ There is nothing about deserving. It is a great deal of money. 
It is nearly as much as the half of what I have got. What papa 
wished was that it should be given back.” 

“ The half of what you have got!” Sir Thomas stared at her 
bewildeied, in his mind making a rapid calculation that, with the 
half of what she had got, Lucy would no longer be the greatest 
heiress in England. He was not sorry. She Would still have a 
great fortune. Somehow, indeed, it pleased and conciliated him 
that she should be put down from that high pedestal. This was 
his only reflection on the subject. “ What are you to do? are you 
to establish institutions or build hospitals?” he said. 

“ Oh, no, nothing of that kind; only to provide for those that 
want, not for the very, very poor, at least not always; but for poor 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 259 

people who are not poor. Do you know what I mean, Sir Thomas? 
— for those who have been well off.” 

“ I understand: like me — poor ladies and poor gentlemen.” 

“We were not ladies and gentlemen ourselves. It is not confined 
to them,” said Lucy, doubtfully; “ families that are struggling to 
live, whether they are gentlemen, or whether they are not — clerks 
like my Uncle Rainy, or school-masters like papa. Do you con- 
sider it very insulting to offer people money, when you see that they 
want it very much?” 

“Well, that depends,” said Sir Thomas, recovering his humor- 
ous look, “ upon the person who offers and the person to whom it 
is offered. It happens so rarely that one has no experience on the 
subject.” 

“ Do you remember, Sir Thomas, when I borrowed that hundred 
pounds?” Lucy said. “ That was for one — it was my first, my very 
first. She was very much offended, and then she said she would 
take it as a loan. I cheated her into it,” the girl said, with glee; 
“ I told her I could not give any loans — papa never said anything 
about loans — but she could give it me back if she wished when I 
am my own mistress in seven years. Don’t you think she will for- 
get before that time? It would be rather dreadful to have it back. ’ ’ 

“That depends also,” he said; “but I think it very likely that 
she will forget. Only take care, take care. Presents of a hundred 
pounds are very pleasant things. You will have crowds of claim- 
ants if you don’t mind.” 

“ A hundred pounds!” said Lucy; “ oh, it was not an insignifi- 
cant thing like that!” 

“ You think that insignificant? You have princely notions, it 
must be allowed. Might one ask—” 

I counted up very closely,” Lucy said. She was drawn along 
by the tide of her own confidences; “ for it was no use giving a lit- 
tle bit that would be swallowed up directly, and do no good. You 
see it was a lady, and ladies are not so expensive as men. In that 
case, and it was my first, it was six thousand pounds.” 

“ Six thousand pounds!” Sir Thomas sprung to his feet in comic- 
al consternation, as if he had been struck by electricity. “ My dear 
little girl,” he said, half tragically, half laughing, “ do you know 
what you are doing? Are you sure this is in your father’s will? and 
do your guardians allow it? I feel my head going round and round. 
Six thousand pounds! to some one not related to you, a stranger!” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lucy, earnestly “or it would not be giving it 
back. My guardians oppose it as much as ever they can,” 


260 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“And I don’t wonder at it!” cried Sir Thomas. “ I think I 
should oppose it, too,- if I were one of them. My dear little Lucy, 
you are upsetting the very principles of political economy. Do 
you know what that means? You will demoralize everybody you 
come in contact with. Even I, though my instincts are not mendi- 
cant, it is all I can do not to hold out my hand for something. I 
shall be doing it if I stay much longer,” he said. 

Lucy looked at him with a dubious, half alarmed look. She 
never was quite sure whether he was in jest or earnest, and the pos- 
sibility, even the most distant possibility, that he could mean — 
Even Lucy’s imagination, however, could not go so far as that. He 
could read her doubt in her face, and laughed out. 

“ I warn you to take care,” he said. “You will be Ihe ruin of 
all your friends; but, Lucy, Lucy, this is a very wonderful busi- 
ness; it is like a fairy tale. You gave away six thousand pounds, 
and were permitted to do so at your age? and you mean to do it 
again— and again?” 

“ Oh, as often as ever I can,” Lucy said, fervently. “I can not 
bear to think how many people may be in want of it, and that I 
don’t know them, and don’t know how to find them out. This 
makes me very unhappy when I think of it. Perhaps you will help 
me to find them — ” 

“ No, that I can not promise to do. I warn you I shall be hold- 
ing out my own hand presently. On the contrary, I will keep peo- 
ple out of your knowledge. You will ruin all our principles,” he 
said. 

“ But when it is in the will,” cried Lucy. It is inconceivable how 
much lighter her heart felt since she had told him. There was a 
little flush on her cheeks, and her eye shone with a pleasant light. 
She could have gone on talking for hours now that the flood-gates 
were open. It was so easy to talk to Sir Tom. His very laugh was 
kind, he never found fault, or if he did, that was as pleasant as the 
rest; she had a kind of frank admiration of him, and trust in him, 
such as some girls feel for an elder brother. The unusual gleam of 
excitement in her face made the little quiet Lucy pretty and interest- 
ing, and Sir Thomas was flattered and piqued at once by the enthu- 
siasm of affectionate faith which was in her eyes. It piqued him, 
and it pleased him— that he should have all this, and yet no more. 
He had got a great deal more in his life and looked for it, and the 
absence of it made him a little impatient. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you will go through the world like a good 
fairy, and I hope the good you will do will make up for the demor- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


261 


alization your want of principle will lead to. But before my princi- 
ples are ruined, Lucy, good-bye. I must go. I have written my 
address there in your blotting-book, and if you want me, or if you 
want to ask me anything, be sure you do it. Thank you for taking 
me into your confidence. But now I must go away.” 

Lucy got up to say good-bye, but her heart sunk. “ Oh, must 
you go?” she said; “ I am so sorry. While you were here the plane 
was not quite so lonely. But I hope you will like the shooting very 
much,” she said with a sigh, and a sense of real self-sacrifice. Her 
eyes got moist in spite of herself; and Sir Thomas bent over her 
and kissed her forehead, or rather her hair, in spite of himself. He 
ought not to have done it, and he was half ashamed of having done 
it. “ Good-bye, my little Lucy,” he cried. As for Lucy, she took 
this kiss “ sedately ” like the poet’s heroine. It seemed so natural, 
she liked him so much; she was glad he liked her a little, too. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A NEW ADVISER. 

Lucy was greatly comforted by the visit of Sir Thomas. It made 
her sad to see him go away, and the consciousness that he was no 
longer within reach raised for the moment another cloud upon her 
horizon; but on the whole it was an exhilaration to her to have 
spoken to him, to have shared her secret with him. She had, as she 
said, tried to communicate it to Lady Randolph in the early days of 
their companionship; but it had been so very far from Lady Ran- 
dolph’s thoughts that Lucy’s timid hint had made no impression on 
her mind. Neither would Sir Thomas have been capable of under- 
standing had she spoken less plainly than she did; but Lucy at last 
had spoken very plainly, and he had understood. He had not given 
her any valuable advice. In such circumstances there is very little 
advice practicable; but he had understood, which is such a great 
matter. She knew no better what to do, how to turn, and how to 
distribute the money, than she had done at the first; but yet she 
was easier in her mind. She had talked it over, and it had done her 
good. Henceforward she was not alone in her possession of this 
secret A secret is a very heavy burden to be borne alone, and, 
though Lucy had been restrained by many considerations from ask- 
ing Sir Thomas’ advice on the special question which now occupied 
fcer mind, she was still consoled. In case of any break-down he 


2G2 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


would not blame her; he would give her his sympathy. In case of 
any difficulty she could write to him, or even summon him to her 
aid. He liked her, which was a pleasure to think of — liked her as 
she liked him — though he was so much older, and of so much more 
importance in the world. All this was of great comfort to Lucy. 
She began to hold up her head, and to feel herself less abandoned. 
It was true he had gone away, but that did not matter so much; he 
would come back if she wanted his help; and in the meanwhile 
time was going, floating on noiselessly and swiftly, and by and by 
the Farafield chapter would be over.. Mrs. Ford, who had watched 
for Sir Tom’s departure very jealously, and who had bounced out 
of the parlor to see him go away, and detected a little redness about 
Lucy’s eyes, was reassured by hearing her hum little tunes to her- 
self in the latter part of the day, and talk to Jock with great ani- 
mation about his new tutor, and all that was going to happen. 

“ She didn’t mind after all,” Mrs. Ford said; “ how should she, 
a man old enough to be her father!” And thus everybody was 
pleased. 

In the afternoon Katie Russell came in, all tearful and penitent, 
to beg Lucy’s pardon, and declare that “ it was all me.” The par- 
don was accorded with great willingness and satisfaction, and Katie 
stayed and chattered, and made a lasting peace. She offended 
Lucy’s taste no longer; or else Lucy awoke to the fact that her 
friend was never entirely to her taste, and that toleration is the most 
essential of all qualities to friendship. Katie remained to tea. She 
told Jock a quite new story, which he had never heard before, and 
could not parallel out of his books; and she beguiled Lucy back 
into the old world of careless youth. Lucy’s youth had never been 
so thoughtless or so merry as that of many of her comrades. Even 
Katie, though she had known so many of the drawbacks of life, 
had, on the other hand, got a great deal more pleasure out of it than 
the heiress had ever known. Sometimes the pleasures and the pains 
go together, and it is a question whether those are best off who hold 
the middle way between, and have not much of either. Katie was 
a more lively companion than Lucy, with her serious upbringing, 
her sense of responsibility, and those cares which had been put so 
prematurely upon her young head, could ever have been. The 
pink drawing-room for the first time became mirthful, and light 
voices and laughter disturbed the quiet. “ Just listen,” Mrs. Ford 
said: “ Sir Thomas, for all such a great man as you think him, has 
not made much impression there. ” Her husband, who had a very 
high opinion of the influence of Sir Thomas, uttered a “ humph ” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IE - ENGLAND. 2($ 


of protestation from where he sat in his easy-chair hy the fire-place. 
The grate full of shavings was not so pleasant as the grate with a 
good fire in it was in winter; but it was Ford’s place at all seasons. 
He said nothing but humph I having nothing to add to bolster up 
his opinion. But it would have been as surprising to him as to his 
wife had they known that it was he who was in the right, and that 
even Lucy’s laugh, her easier mind, her more cheerful face, owed 
something to the cheerful presence of Sir Tom, even though he had 
gone away. 

At tea they were joined by another and unexpected visitor, at the 
sight of whom Mrs. Ford threw up her hands. “Philip,” she 
cried, “ I thought you were abroad. How glad I am to see you! 
Dear, dear, how little one knows! I w^s thinking this very after- 
noon, when I saw a picture of the snowy mountains — there, now, 
Philip’s about there.” 

“ I have come back, ” said Philip; “ I was abroad all last month, 
but a great many things seemed to call me home. There is a bit to 
be built on at Kent’s Lane. And there was Lucy. Oh, how do 
you do? You aro here! I thought,” he said with frankness which 
Mrs. Ford thought excessive, “ that I must come back if Lucy was 
here.” 

“ I shall be here for six months,” said Lucy, calmly. “Iam 
very glad to see you. Cousin Philip, but it is a pity you should have 
come back for me.” 

“ I don’t regret it,” said the young man; he did not resemble any 
of the others whom Lucy knew. He was not like St. Clair, or yet 
Raymond Rushton, who, though the one was fat and the other awk- 
ward, had still a certain naturalness and ease, as if they belonged to 
the position in which they were. Philip was a great deal more care- 
fully adapted to his position in every respect than they were. He 
had just the clothes which a man in the country in the month, of 
August ought to wear, and he had been absent, spending the first 
part of his holiday “ abroad.” as most men in August would like 
to be. He had all the cleanness and neatness and trimness which 
are characteristic of a well bred Englishman. He was not fine; 
there was no superfluous glitter about him— not a link too much to 
his watch-chain, not an unnecessary button. In the very best taste! 
the only thing against him was that his appearance was too com- 
plete. He had the air of being respectful of his clothes, and very 
conscious of them. And he was always on his good hehavior, very 
careful to commit no solecism, to do exactly what it was right to 
do. He came in with his hat in his hand, and clung to it, though 


264 THE GREATEST HEIRESS Iff ENGLAND. 


all the time it was apparent in his countenance that he would much 
rather have left it in the hall. It was in such matters that Philip 
Rainy betrayed himself, for in his heart he felt that it would also 
have been much more sensible had he hung up his hat, and not en- 
cumbered himself with the care of it. He sat down on the hair- 
cloth sofa, not approaching his chair to the table round which all 
the others were seated. He had been brought up upon bread and 
butter, and was very well accustomed to the homely tea-table; but 
he felt he owed it to himself to keep up a position of independence, 
inferring the superior dignity of a late dinner even in vacation time, 
and a soul above tea. 

“ Nothing to eat?’’ said Ford. “ I think you’re wrong, Philip; 
here is toast, and there are some nice slices of cold beef; and there’s 
cake, but there’s no substance in cake. It is good enough for girls, 
who live upon nothing; but a man, except to finish off with, wants 
something more solid. Have a bit of cold beef — that’s what I’m 
taking myself.” 

“Let him alone,” said Mrs. Ford; “he don’t want to spoil his 
dinner. I hope you haven’t come home on some wild-goose chase 
or other, Philip. I hope you have a better reason than just to see 
Lucy; but, anyhow, you’re welcome. Lucy has been home only a 
few days, and she’s not spoiled, nor much changed, I hough she 
might be. I can not say that I think she’s much changed. ” 

“ Lucy is not one to change,” the young man said; and he looked 
at her with an affectionate smile; but somehow, in the very act of 
going to her, this look was arrested by the little saucy face of Katie 
Russell, a face which was brighter and more mischievous, but not 
half so strong in moral beauty as that of Lucy. She caught him, 
looking at him as the most timid of young girls may look at a 
stranger, when under the care of a most decorous roof and a ma- 
tron’s ample wines. The young man actually swerved a little aside, 
and stopped dead short in what he was saying. It was as if some 
one had given him a blow. 

“I forgot to introduce you to Miss Russell,” said Mrs. Ford, 
catching the look, but not understanding it. “ A cousin of ours, 
Mr. Rainy, Miss Russell. No, you are right about Lucy; but she 
has a great many temptations. There are folks about her that have 
their own ends to serve. She is one that many a person envies; but 
I for one don’t envy Lucy. I tell her sometimes I wonder how 
many of her fine friends would stand by her— My Lady This, and 
Mrs. That— if she were to lose her money; that's what they’re after. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 265 

And she’s too trusting; the thing for her would be to keep herself 
to herself.” 

“ Indeed,” cried Katie Russell, with sparkling eyes, “it is very 
cruel and unkind of you to say so. Lucy knows very well we don’t 
love her for her money. What do I care for her money? I was 
fond of Lucy before I knew what money meant, and so I w T ould be 
fond of her,” cried the girl, with a flush of passion, “if it were all 
tossed into the sea— and all my people,” she added, after a mo- 
ment, “ as well as me.” 

Lucy had followed this little outburst with pleasure in her mild 
eyes, but the last words gave her a shock, as of the real penetrating 
into the poetical. Her mind was not quick enough to jump at the 
subtle mixture of semi-truth and semi-falsehood in it, but she felt, 
though she could not define. There was the bitterest kind of humor 
in the suggestion, but Katie, perhaps, did not know, and certainly 
did not, at the moment, mean anything different from what she said. 

“ Susan,” said Ford, with a nod to Philip, “ wasn’t meaning any- 
body in particular. There is no occasion, Miss Russell, to take 
offense. Mrs. Ford was meaning — other persons that shall be name- 
less,” Ford added, with a wave of his hand. 

“They are all wrong, Philip,” said Lucy. “I wish so very 
much people would not speak so. It takes all the pleasure out of 
my life. Lady Randolph never talked about my money, never 
warned me against any one. Please don’t do it, Aunt Ford!” 

“ I knowV’ said Mrs. Ford, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ I’ve seen it from the very first in your face, Lucy. I’m not a 
fine lady, like your Lady Randolph; I can’t put a smooth face on 
everything and let you go sailing over a precipice as if it were noth- 
ing to me. I am only one that speaks out plain what is in my 
mind, and one that has known you from your cradle, and have no 
ends of my own, but your interest at heart. But to be plain and [ 
true’s not enough for you any longer. I’ve known it all this time, 
I’ve seen it in your face; but I didn’t think you would put it into 
words, and before strangers, and me Lucilla Rainy’s cousin, and one 
that has known you from your cradle, and nursed your father on 
his death-bed; oh, I never thought you could have the heart to put 
it into words!” 

“Have I said anything wrong?” said Lucy, in great distress. 
She was bewildered by the sudden attack, and horrified by the 
scene, “ before strangers;” for Lucy had all the instincts of re- 
spectability, and to see Mrs. Ford’s tears filled her with pain and 
involuntary compunction; but she was not so emotional as to lose 


266 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


her sense of justice. “I did not mean to say anything wrong,” 
she repeated, anxiously. Mrs. Ford’s tears were a little slow in 
coming: she sniffed, and she held her handkerchief to her face, 
which was red with anger and excitement, but she did not possess, 
at any time, a great command over tears. 

Then Philip took up the part of peace-maker. 

“You said yourself, two minutes ago, that Lucy was not 
changed,” he said. “Because you think she should be on her 
guard, you don’t want her to be unhappy; and if she does not like 
her friends, how can she be happy, Mrs. Ford? So good a friend as 
you are must know that. To be sure,” said Philip, “ we of the 
Rainy family can’t help being a little anxious and fussy about our 
heiress, can we? We think more of her than other people can, and 
care more for her. ” 

“ That is the truth, that is the very truth,” cried Mrs. Ford. And 
thus the incident blew over in professions that Lucy’s interest and 
happiness were all she thought of, on one side, and, on the other, 
that she meant to say nothing which could hurt Mrs. Ford’s feelings. 

Philip went upstairs with the girls after this, into the pink draw- 
ing-room, where he sat all the evening, forgetting his dinner. He 
had come to see Lucy, but it was Katie Russell who took the con- 
versation in hand; and as he was a very staid young man, not used 
to the lighter graces of conversation, Katie’s chatter and the perpet- 
ual variations of her pretty face were a sort of revelation to Philip. 
He was entirely carried beyond himself and all his purposes by this 
new being. Lucy sat tranquilly in her corner and assisted, but did 
little more. She was amused to see her grave cousin laughed at 
and subdued, and the evening flew over them, as evenings rarely 
fly in more edifying intercourse. The talk and laughter were at 
their height, when Katie, going to the piano to sing “ just one more 
song,” suddenly discovered that it was too dark to see her music, 
and stopped short with a cry of dismay. “ Why, it is dark! and 
I never noticed — What will Mrs. Stone think? I came over only 
for half an hour, and I am staying all the night. Lucy, good-bye, 
I must go now.” 

“ But you have promised me. this song,” Philip said; “ there are 
candles to be had.” 

“ And you are not going to run away like that. Jock and I will 
go home with you,” said Lucy, “ and, perhaps, Philip will come, 
too.” 

Philip thanked his cousin with his eyes, and the song was sung; 
and then the little party got under way. It was a warm still night, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf EtfGLAHD. 26? 


witli a little autumnal mist softening all the edges of the horizon, 
and mild stars shining through with a kind yet pensive softness. 
Philip Rainy had been admirable in all the relations of life. He had 
done his duty by his parents, by his scholars, and by himself; he 
had combined a prudent sense of his own interests with justice to 
everybody, and kindness to those who had a claim upon him; and 
the life which, lay behind him was one which any well-regulated 
young man might have looked back upon with pleasure. But all at 
once, it seemed to the young school-master that it was the dreariest of 
desert tracks, and that up 1o this moment he had never lived at all. 
He had never understood before what the balmy atmosphere of a 
summer night meant, or how it was that the stars got soft, and came 
to bear a personal relation to the eyes that looked at them. What 
did it mean? He had come to see Lucy, but he barely perceived 
Lucy. All the world and all his interests seemed suddenly concen- 
trated into the little circle in which that one little figure was stand- 
ing. He stood beside her, drawn to her by a soft inexplainable in- 
fluence. He walked beside her as in a dream, everything was sweet 
— the night air that lifted her bright hair and tossed it about her 
forehead; the gorse- bush that clung to her dress and had to be dis- 
engaged, every prickle giving him another delicious prick as he 
pulled them away. Whether he was dreaming, or whether he had 
gone clean out of his senses, or whether this was a new life of which 
he had never been conscious before, Philip did not know. When 
they arrived at the White House, which they did not do by honest, 
straightforward means, along the plain road that led to it, but by a 
quite unnecessary roundabout — an excursion led by Jock through 
all the narrowest byways — a sudden stop seemed to be put to this 
chapter of existence. He had a hand put into his for one second, a 
succession of merry nods, and farewells waved by the same hand, 
and then he stood with Lucy, come to himself, outside a blank door, 
a dropped curtain, a sudden conclusion. Philip stood gazing; he 
did not seem to have any energy even to turn round. Had it been 
suggested to him to lie down there and spend the night he would 
have thought the suggestion most reasonable. Had he been alone 
he would, no doubt, have lingered, for some time at least. Even as 
it was, he never knew how long a time — a minute, or an hour, or 
perhaps only an infinitesimal moment, too small to be reckoned on 
any watch — elapsed before, slowly coming to himself with the gid- 
diness of a fall, he saw that he was with Lucy, and that she was 
turning to go home. Jock was roaming on in advance, a little mov- 
ing solid speck in the vague dark, and Lucy moved on, softly and 


268 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


lightly, indeed, but with no enchantment about her steps. And then 
what she said was all of the old world, the antiquated dried-up 
Sahara of existence from which Philip had escaped for the first time 
in his life. 

“ It looks a little like rain,” Lucy said; “ it is a good thing we are 
not far from home.” 

“Ah! but it does not so much matter now,” Philip said, with a 
sigh. “ She would have spoiled her pretty dress.” 

“Yes; muslins go at once,” said Lucy; “it is the starch. I 
didn’t think it would rain when we came out. But we must not 
grumble— we have had a beautiful summer. Does Farafield seem 
just the same to you, Philip, when you come home?” 

“Farafield! I never saw anything so sweet — the air is softer 
than I ever felt it in my life; and the common smells — like Para- 
dise,” sried the young man in the sudden bewilderment which had 
come upon him, which he did not understand. 

“ Do you think so?” said Lucy, in great surprise; especially the 
last point was doubtful; but she thought it was the warmth of local 
enthusiasm, and blamed herself for her want of patriotism. ■ ‘ I 
like it very well,” she added, with hesitation; “ but — after one has 
been away the first time, then one sees all the difference. I don’t 
suppose I should feel the same again.” 

Then there was a pause. Philip did not feel inclined to talk; his 
mind was quite abstracted out of its ordinary channel. As they 
went back he felt within himself a dual consciousness — he was walk- 
ing with her, helping her over the stones, disengaging her dress from 
the prickles; and at the same time he was walking demurely with 
Lucy, who required no such services. The sensible young school- 
master, had the question been suddenly put to him, could not, at 
the moment, have distinguished which was true. 

But Lucy, curiously enough, was seized with an inclination to 
open her mind to her cousin. She had come back to her natural 
condition, through the help of Sir Tom and Katie, and she wanted 
to be friendly. She said, “ I am so glad that you have come home, 
Philip. You know — so much more than Aunt Ford knows. Per- 
haps if you will tell her that everybody is not thinking of my money 
—that it is not half so important as she thinks — she will believe 
you.” 

“ Your money!” Philip said, with a gasp— suddenly the stars dis- 
appeared out of the sky; the summer evening became less balmy; 
there was a moment of rapid gyration, either of the whole round 
world itself or of his head, he could not tell which; and he felt him- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


269 


self strike sharply with his foot upon a stone in the path, and came 
to earth and to common life again, limping and rubbing hi? ankle. 
“ Confound it!” he said, under his breath; but perhaps it was his 
good angel that put that stone in his way. He came wholly and 
entirely to himself under the stimulus of that salutary pain. 

“ I hope you have not hurt yourself,” said Lucy, with her usual 
calm. 

“ O ti % it is nothing,” said Philip, ashamed. “The fact is, I 
came home sooner than I intended, thinking — that, perhaps, you 
might want some advice. For instance,” he said, grasping at the 
first idea which occurred to him, a sort of staff of the practical in 
this chaos of the vague and unknown where he had suddenly found 
himself stumbling, “about Jock — he is in my way — I might help 
you about Jock.” 

“ Oh,” said Lucy, with animation, “ thank you, Philip, that is 
all arranged. I have got the most delightful plan settled. Mrs. 
Stone’s nephew, a poor gentleman who is in bad health; just when 
he was about succeeding so finely at the bar — and it is a great thing 
to succeed at the' bar, isn’t it? — his health gave way; and he is so 
good as to be willing to come and teach Jock. I think it is so very 
kind.” 

“ Kind!” said Philip at last, thoroughly woke up; He opened 
his eyes wide and shook himself instinctively. This was what Mrs. 
Ford meant, and no wonder if she made a scene. “ This is a strange 
step to take, Lucy,” he said, seriously. “ I don’t know what it 
means. I should think, as a relative, and your father’s successor, 
and — engaged in tuition” (nature had brought the word school- 
master to his lips, but unless you belong to the higher branches of 
the profession, you do not like to call yourself a school master), 

“ that I had the first claim.” 

Lucy was greatly distressed. She had never considered the ques- 
tion before in this light. “Oh, Philip! I am so sorry. So you 
should have had, if I had ever thought! I beg your pardon a thou- 
sand times. But then,” she added, recovering her composure, 

“ you have a great many boys — it does not matter to you; and this 
poor gentleman — ” 

“ Poor gentlemen ought not to come to you,” said Philip, with 
indignation. “ A barrister, a man in bad health — what has he to do 
with a small boy? Jock ought to have come to me. I proposed it 
before you went to London; it is the best thing for him. I think 
that your father meant him to be my successor in Kent’s Lane.” 

“ Oh, no, no! never that,” said Lucy. 


270 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ Is it so much beneath Jock?” Philip said, with a touch of nat- 
ural bitterness. 44 But anyhow, it is I that ought to have the charge 
of him. I do not want to be unkind, Lucy; but I think I begin to 
see what Mrs. Ford means about your family. 

“Philip!” cried Lucy, indignant; and then she added, almost 
crying, 44 You are all so unjust; and if you say so, too, what am I 
to do?” 

44 1 will not say anything; but it is what I can not help thinking,” 
said Philip, with the stateliness of offense. It seemed to him, he 
could scarcely tell how, that he was being defrauded, not of Jock, 
who was a trifle, but of all share or interest in Lucy’s future. He 
had come back on purpose to look after her, to keep her out of 
trouble. While he had been away it had been more and more clear 
to him that to share Lucy’s fortune was in a manner his right. It 
would save him at least ten years, it would secure his position at 
once, and he had a right. He had come to the Terrace that evening 
full of this idea; and he had played the fool — he could not but allow 
that he had played the fool. What were poetry and the stars and 
the mild influences of the Pleiades to him? He was a Rainy, and 
there was no one who had so much right to share the great Rainy 
fortune. The energy of opposition awoke him, which nothing else, 
perhaps, could have done. 44 You will forgive me,” he said, 44 but 
you are only a young girl, and you can not be expected to under- 
stand. And it is quite true what Aunt Ford said, there are always 
a herd of harpies after a young girl with a large fortune. You 
should take the advice of those who belong to you. You should 
first consult your true friends.” 

Lucy was confounded; she did not know how to reply. Was not 
Sir Thomas her true friend? He had not been angry with her when 
she told him about that famous scheme for giving the money back. 
Some floating idea that Philip would have been able to help her in 
that respect, lhat he might have suggested what, for instance, she 
should give to St. Clair, had been in her mind. But Lucy promptly 
shut up her impulse of confession. She withdrew a little from his 
side. He was not ignorant like the Fords — he was a kind of nat- 
ural adviser. 44 But what is the use of speaking to any one w T ho 
does not understand?” Lucy said. So they traversed the rest of the 
way in silence, Philip occasionally making a severe remark in the 
same vein, yet feeling, as he did so, that every word he said was a 
sacrifice of his vantage-ground. He wanted to change his tactics 
w T hen he saw the evident mistake of strategy he had made. But 
such matters are not within our own control; when a false key is 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


271 


struck it is not easy to get free of it. Philip was ready to curse 
himself for his folly; but at the same time his folly and his wrong 
key-note and the misadventure of the evening altogether gave him 
a sense of almost aversion to his cousin. “ What a contrast!” he 
said to nimself. Thus Lucy, whose simplicity was captivating to 
such a man of the world as Sir Tom, made the Farafield school- 
master indignant and impatient beyond measure. Sir Thomas 
would have been in no sort of danger from little Katie. Thus the 
world goes on, without any regard to the suitable or possible. They 
said “ good night ” very coolly to each other, and Lucy ran upstairs 
vexed and troubled — for to be disapproved of wounded her. As 
for Mrs. Ford, she came out of the parlor, where she now seemed 
to lie in wait for occurrences, when she heard them come to the 
door. “ Come soon again, Philip,” she whispered, “ there’s a good 
lad. I think the whole town is after her. You are the one that 
ought to get it all. You will be kindly welcome if you come every 
day.” 

“ I have not a notion what it is you want me to get,” said 
Philip, crossly, as he strode away. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

VISITORS. 

The day on which these events occurred was the day of Mr. 
Frank St. Clair’s arrival at the White House, where he had come 
dutifully in answer to his aunt’s summons, to hear of “ something 
to his advantage.” To do him justice, he was by no means de- 
lighted with the project; but he was dutiful and needy, and there 
was nothing for it but to submit. He went the next morning to pay 
his respects to the heiress and assume the charge of his pupil. It 
was not a long walk from the White House, but Mr. Frank St. 
Clair was warm when he arrived, being, according to the euphemism 
of the day, “ out of training,” and glad to sit down and contemplate 
the little fellow who was to be the instrument of his fortune. Jock, 
who had resumed his position on the white rug, and lay there, cool 
and at his ease, while Lucy dutifully read her history, was by no 
means inclined to submit to any examination. 

“Come and tell me what you can do, my little man, ” Mr. St. 
Clair said; '* let us see which of us knows the most; we are going 
to teach each other— you me, or I you. Come and let’s make out 
which it is to be.” 


272 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Jock raised his head from the rug and looked at his questioner 
with big eyes. The inspection did not seem to please him. “I 
know a lot,” he said, concisely, and dropped his head; his book 
was more interesting than the stranger. It was “ Don Quixote,” 
with pictures, which he had in his hands; this deeply experienced 
reader had never encountered the w r ork with these attractions be- 
fore. 

“ I told you, Miss Trevor,” said St. Clair, “ he sees through me, 
he knows my learning is antiquated. If a man has the misfortune 
to live before Madvig, what is he to do? Scholarship is the most 
progressive of all sciences; which is curious, considering that it is 
with dead languages it bas to do.” 

Lucy raised her mild eyes with no understanding in them. It 
was in vain to speak of dead languages to her. “ Though he is so 
little,” she said, apologetically, “ he has read a great many books. 
That is what he means; but he has had no education, Mr. St. Clair, 
except just a little at Hampstead. He has done nothing but read 
books — nonsense books, ’ ’ said Lucy severely, thinking to reach the 
culprit, “ that could not teach him anything or do him any good.” 

Reading books is, on the whole, not a bad kind of education,” 
said St. Clair. “ I see you pursue that way yourself.” 

“ Oh — but this is history; it is not in the least amusing; some- 
times it is very hard; I can’t remember it a bit; and sometimes I 
almost go to sleep: veiy different, ” said Lucy, pointedly, “from 
the books that Jock reads; they make him laugh, they make him so 
interested that he can’t bear any one to speak to him. He won’t go 
to bed, he won’t play for them. That can not be education at all.” 

“Very true,” Mr. St. Clair said. “Medicine must be nasty. 
Might one know, my friend, what you are reading now?” 

Jock raised himself from the rug once more. He did not lose a 
word either of the book or the conversation. “ I’ve read it before; 
but this time I’ve just come to the windmills,” he said. 

“ The windmills? now what may they be?” 

“I told you,” said Lucy, regretfully, “they are all nonsense 
books — nothing that is of any good. ’ ’ 

“ Because you don’t know,” cried Jock, hotly. “You’ve no 
business to speak when you don’t know. Re doesn’t think they’re 
windmills; he thinks they ’re big giants, and they’re just like it— 
just like giants — I've thought so myself. He thinks they’ve got a 
lot of poor people carrying them off to be slaves, and there’s only 
him upon his own horse — nobody more; but do you think he’ll let 
them carry off the poor people for slaves? He goes at them like a 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 273 

dozen knights — he goes at them like an army,” cried Jock, his eyes 
flashing. “ I wish I had been there, I’d have done it, too.” 

“ All, Don Quixote,” said St. Clair. “ What! you, Jock! You 
that know such a lot — you’d have gone at the windmills, too?” 

Jock grew red, for he did not like ridicule. “He. didn’t know 
they were windmills, ” he said. 

“Didn’t I tell you, Mr. St. Clair,” said Lucy, “ that is all he 
thinks about— windmills? what good can windmills do him? unless 
he were to learn all about the uses of them, and who began them, 
and the good they are to the country; that would be very different 
from a fairy tale.” 

“ It is not a bit a fairy tale,” Jock cried, indignant. “ It’s a long 
time since I read any fairy tales — never any since Prospero and 
Ariel on the enchanted island. This is about a man. Fairy tales 
are very nice when you are quite little,” he added, with dignity, 
“just beginning to read plain; but when you are bigger you like 
the sense best, for you can think, I would do the same.” 

“ You see, Mr. St. Clair, that is just like him; it is not educa- 
tion, ’ ’ said Lucy, with mild despair. 

“ I am not quite clear about that,” said St. Clair, who knew a 
little more than Lucy; “but, Jock, you will find a great many 
more books to read and men to hear about if you come to me and 
learn. Leave your tall gentleman to overcome the windmills, and 
come and speak to me. Tell me what you have learned, ’ ’ he said, 
holding the child within his arm as he stood up reluctantly by his 
side. Lucy looked on with pleased approval, yet many excuses. 

“ He has never been to school; he was so delicate papa didn’t like 
him to be out of his sight, ’ ’ she said, reddening with much shame 
and self-reproach as the real state of the case was elucidated. When 
the cross-examination was over Jock, though not at all ashamed, 
escaped as quickly as he could from Mr. St.Clair’s detaining arm. 1 
He snatched up his book from the rug, and made assurance sure by 
putting a flight of stairs and the closed door of Mrs. Ford’s room 
between him and the inquisitor, who laughed and shook his head as 
the little fellow bolted. “ We must begin from the beginning, I 
fear,” he said. “He has been neglected; but after all, there has 
not been much time lost.” 

“lam very sorry he is so ignorant,” said Lucy, deprecatingly; 

“ but, Mr. St. Clair, papa was old, and I was very young.” 

“ Yes; no one could expect you to think of it; you are very 
young now, Miss Trevor, to have such a charge.” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” Lucy said; “ many people have had a 

'v<* 


\ 


274 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


great deal more to do. I have heard of girls that have had to work 
for their brothers and sisters; indeed, I have been acquainted with 
some,” she said, thinking of Mary Russell. “But now that we 
know of it, it is not too late to mend it, Mr. St. Clair.” 

‘ * Not at all too late;” he was pleased that she should say we. Such 
a familiarity of association was all he thought that could be desired. 
“ I will undertake to put him in the right way — for the moment.” 

“ Oh,” Lucy said, with disturbed looks, “ will it be only for the 
moment, Mr. St. Clair? I know it is very good fortune, far more 
than we could have expected, to get you at ail — and that you should 
take such a very little boy.” 

“Iam very happy to be able to be of any use to you,” St. Clair 
said, with a smile; “ and if I am not called away — but you well un- 
derstand that I can not oe at all sure of my time, Miss Trevor. I 
may be called away.” 

St. Clair was ready to laugh at the little formula, and this gave 
him an additional Mr of seriousness, which looked like feeling. “ I 
wish I had done nothing in my life to be so little ashamed of,” he 
added, “ as teaching a small boy.” 

Lucy looked at him with great respect, and even a little awe. An 
innocent girl has a certain awe of a man so much older than herself, 
so much more experienced in every way, who perhaps has had mys- 
terious wrong-doings in his life as well as other things, more mo- 
mentous and terrible than any her imagination has ever real- 
ized. The things that St. Clair might have to be ashamed 
of loomed large upon her in the darkness of her ignorance, 
like gigantic shadows, upon which she looked with pity and 
a little horror, yet the same time an awful respect. “ Mrs. Stone 
told me,” she said, with her serious face, “ that you had not been 
well; that after all your studies and work you had not been well 
enough — I am very, very sorry. It must have been a great disap- 
pointment.” 

“ That is exactly what it was; it is very sweet to meet with some 
one who understands,” St, Clair said; “ yes, it is not so much for 
myself, but they had all done so much for me, all believed in me 
so.” 

“ But, Mr. St. Clair, with rest and taking care, will it not all 
come right?” 

“ They say so,” he said; “ but, Miss Trevor, though you don’t 
know much of the hardships of life, you will understand that this 
is exactly what it is most hard to do. To rest implies means and 
leisure, and I ought to be working night and day.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


275 


“I am very, very sorry,” said Lucy; a great many waves of 
varying resolution were passing over her mind — what could she do? 
would it be most polite to take notice, to receive such a confidence 
as if it was nothing to her? or should she be bold and put forth her 
powers as a helper, a wrong-redresser? Jock’s story about the 
windmills had seemed very great nonsense to his unlettered sister, 
yet practically she was in a strait not dissimilar. She put her lance 
in rest with a very doubtful and unassured hand; but if they were 
giants, as they seemed, she, too, felt, like the great Spaniard, that 
to pass them by would be cowardly. She looked at him wistfully, 
faltering. “ You will think it strange of me to say it, ” she said, 
her serious face gradually crimsoning from chin to forehead; “ but 
perhaps you know— that I am— not the same as other girls; if there 
were anything that I could do — ” 

St. Clair grew red too with surprise and mortification; what could 
the girl mean? he asked himself; but he answered suavely, “lam 
sure you are a great deal better and kinder than most girls — or men 
either, Miss Trevor. You have the divine gift of sympathy, which 
always does one good.” 

“ I don’t know if it is sympathy, Mr. St. Clair. Papa left me a 
great many directions. He said there were some things I was to try 
to do; and if it would be good for you to have leisure, and be able 
to rest for a year or two — ’ ’ 

St. Clair was reduced to the level of Raymond Rusliton by the 
utter confusion which these words seemed to bring into the very 
atmosphere. 

“ Oh, by Jove!” he ejaculated faintly, in his dismay. He rose 
up hurriedly. She would offer him money, he felt, if he gave her 
another moment to do it, and though he was very willing and de- 
sirous, if he could, to get possession of her money as a whole, to 
have a little of it thus offered to him seemed the last indignity . " I 

expect to find Jock a very amusing pupil,” he said; “ not at all 
like the average little boy. He shall give me a lesson in literature 
when I have given him his Latin. I suspect it is I who will profit 
the most. The little wretch seems to have read everything; I won- 
der if you have shared his studies. He must have got the taste from 
some one; it is not generally innate in small boys.” 

“Oh, no,” said Lucy, “not I.” She was disappointed to have 
the subject changed so rapidly,, and abandoned it, with great reluct- 
ance, still looking at him to know why ho should so cut her short. 
“ Jock does not think iruch of me,” she added, “and all those 
story-books and plays and poetry can not be good for him surely. 


276 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN EHGLAHD. 


Papa never minded; he was old, and Jock seemed such a baby it 
did not seem to matter what he did; it was not his fault. ! ’ 

“ Oh, I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. But you are reading, 
I see, in a steadier way. What is it? history?” Mr. St. Clair ap- 
proached her table where she was sitting and looked at Lucy’s 
book. 

“Yes,” she said, with a soft little sigh. “Lady Randolph 
thought I ought; and I should be thinking of my French. It is so 
hard when one is not clever. I must ask Mrs. Stone to let me go 
to mademoiselle when she comes back.” 

“ And may I help you with this?” Mr. St. Clair said. He drew 
a chair near her and sat down. 

It had not occurred to good Mrs. Ford that any precautions were 
necessary, or that she should break up her mornings by being pres- 
ent during all the talk of the young people. If a girl had 1o be 
watched forever, Mrs. Foid thought, she must be a very poor sort 
of girl; so that Lucy’s pink drawing-room was practically open to 
the world* as entirely open as if she had been an American young 
lady, with a salon and visiting list of her own. She was very grate- 
ful 1o Mr. St. Clair when he sat down beside her. It was so kind. 
He took up the book, and asked her if she had seen this and that, 
other books more readable than the dry compendium Lucy was 
studying. 

“ If you will let me get them for you it will give me the greatest 
pleasure,” St. Clair said. “ I consider history my great subject. I 
should like to help you, if you will let me.” Lucy accepted his 
offer with the greatest gratitude. She had found it very dry work 
by herself. 

This was the scene upon which Raymond Rushton came in, very 
slowly, crushing his hat in his hands. His mother had prevented 
him from signifying the hour of his visit, with a natural fear of the 
precautions which Mrs. Stone would certainly have taken to occupy 
the ground beforehand; but this prudence, as it happened, did him 
no good. Raymond, to tell the truth, was as much relieved as he 
was annoyed by St. Clair’s presence. He had felt himself grow red 
and grow pale, hot and cold, all the way, as he came along the 
street, wondering how he was to manage to make himself agreeable 
as his mother had ordered him. The very fact that he was com- 
manded to make himself agreeable hindered any natural effort he 
might have been capable of. He did not know how to talk to Lucy. 
Some girls saved you the trouble of talking, but she was not one of 
those girls, and he did not know how he was to manage to get 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


277 


upon such easy terms with her as would make flirtation possible — 
even if he had known how to flirt, which he did not— at least with 
Lucy. So, though he was so far sensible of the importance of the 
pursuit as to be slightly angry and alarmed by St. Clair’s presence, 
he was still more relieved, on the whole, to feel that he was thus 
protected, and that there would not be so much required of him. 
He came in looking very much embarrassed, crushing his hat be- 
tween his hands. 

“ How d’ye do, Miss Trevor?” he said. “ My mother thought I 
ought to come and see about our ride. We have fixed Thursday for 
the picnic, but don’t you think we might go out to-morrow to see 
how the horses go together? Mine,” said Raymond, with a blush, 
“ is rather an old screw.” 

“I should like to go — whenever you like. lam very fond of 
it, ” said Lucy. “ Jock and I thought of going a little way this 
evening, but only a little way.” 

This put Raymond more and more out. 

‘‘Iam afraid I can’t get my horse to-day. It is too late now to 
arrange it.” 

“ Do you get your horses from the Black Bull?” said St. Clair. 

‘ ‘ It must be difficult to make sure of anything there. I go to the 
Cross Keys, where you are much better served. The Black Bull,” 
he added, in an explanatory tone, ‘ * is the place where you get your 
flies. Miss Trevor. When the fine weather comes, and a great many 
people are driving about, all their horses are put into requisition.” 

“ Oh, not quite so bad as that,” cried Raymond, reddening; “ you 
don’t suppose I ride a fly-horse.” 

‘‘I know I have done it,” St. Clair said; “ when one has not a 
horse of one’s own, one has to be content with what one can get; 
but to feel that you are upon a noble steed which made his last ap- 
pearance, perhaps, between the shafts of a hearse — ” 

” Oh, hold hard!” Raymond cried; he was sadly humiliated by 
the suggestion, and he now began to feel that the presence of this 
intruder made his visit of very little use, indeed; “you must not 
take all that for gospel, Miss Trevor. A joke is a joke, but a man 
may go too far in joking.” 

“ Which is more than you are likely to do on old Fryer’s horses, ” 
St. Clair said, laughing. But then he got up, feeling that he had 
made an end of his young rival. He was bigger, broader, altogelher 
more imposing than Raymond. He stood up, and expanded his 
large proportions, feeling that anybody with half an eye must see 
the difference— which, perhaps, on the whole, was an unwise step; 


278 THE .GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


for St. Clair was too much developed for a young man, and the 
merest suspicion of fatness, is not that a capital crime in a girl’s 
eyes? On the whole, when they stood up together, Raymond’s slim 
youthfulness carried the day; but there are no delusions so obstinate 
as those which concern our own personal appearance, and it was 
with a smile of conscious triumph that the larger young man spread 
himself out. As for Raymond he too felt outdone, and withdrew a 
little from the competition. 

“ Emmie has got her pony,” he said. “ My mother thinks it will 
do her a great deal of good to see how you ride, Miss Trevor. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, but I never was considered to ride very well,” Lucy said. 

“We think down here that whatever you do is done well,” said 
St. Clair, taking the very words out of Raymond’s mouth, with this 
difference, that Ray would have uttered them seriously, and would 
have broken down, whereas that fellow made a joke of it, and car 
ried off the compliment with a laugh. “ We are not much used to 
accomplished young ladies from town down here," - St. Clair added; 
“ and whatever you do is a wonder to us. ‘ When you speak we’d 
have you do so ever; when you sing we’d have you buy and sell so, 
so give alms — ’ ” 

From this it will be seen that Mr. Frank St. Clair was possessed 
of some of the graces of letters. But the young persons on either 
side of him opened their eyes. Ray had a suspicion that there was 
some sort of play-acting in it; but Lucy was simply amazed that any 
one should speak of her singing when she could not sing at all. 

“ Indeed,” she said, seriously, “ I do not know a note. I never 
had a voice, and what was the use of having lessons? 1 ’ which simple 
answer, though it made him laugh, entirely disconcerted St. Clair, 
and reduced him almost to the level of Raymond, who had now got 
one hand into his pocket and felt more comfortable and at his ease. 
It was thus that Ray was left master of the field, somewhat to his 
own surprise, but at the same time much to his gratification, too. 

“ I say, what a queer fellow that is,” Raymond said; “ we all 
want to know about him. If he’s a barrister, as they say, why isn’t 
he at his chambers, or on circuit, or something? To be sure it’s the 
‘ Long ’ just now; but he seems to be always here.” 

“He has overworked himself; he is not able to do anything,” 
said Lucy with great sympathy, looking out from the window with 
a grave face as he -went out through the big gate-way and crossed 
the road. When he had reached the edge of the common he looked 
back, and seeing her, took off his hat. It gave St. Clair a glow of 

v V 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS Ilf ENGLAND. 


279 


satisfaction to see Lucy looking after him. He went on with a 
lighter step, and, if possible, a broader chest than ever. 

“ By Jove! isn’t he fat?” said Raymond, by Lucy’s side; and 
Lucy, full of sympathy as she was, could not help remarking the 
breadth of shadow which moved with him across the sunshine. She 
laughed in spite of herself. The observation was not witty, but 
Raymond was put into sudh high spirits by the laugh he elicited 
that he burst forth into scintillations of still more unquestionable 
wit. That is because they pet him so at Mrs. Stone’s. Ladies 
always do pet one. I should like to know where he’d find a fly- 
horse up to his weight. Let us ask him to the picnic, Miss Trevor, 
and borrow a beast for him from the brewer. One elephant upon 
another,” said Ray. 

But Lucy’s amusement did not last through so long an address. 
She ended by a sigh, looking after him sympathetically. “ I wish 
one could do everything one wished!” she said. 

“ Ah!” Raymond echoed with a sigh. “ But you can, I should 
think, pretty near. I wish I could do any one thing I wished,” the 
young man added, ruefully. 

“ And that is just my case, too,” Lucy said. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A CROQUET PARTY. 

The Rushtons lived in a big old red brick house close to the town 
hall in what was still called the market-place of Farafield, though all 
the meaner hubbub of the market had long ago been banished to the 
square behind, with its appropriate buildings. It was a house of the 
time of Queen Anne, with rows of glittering windows surmounted 
by a pediment, and though it was in the center of the town a fine 
old walled garden behind. To Lucy this garden seemed the bright- 
est place imaginable when she was led into it through the shady 
passages of the old house, the thick walls and rambling arrange- 
ment of which defended it from the blazing of the August skies, 
which penetrated with pitiless heat and glare the naked walls of the 
Terrace, built without any consideration of atmospheric changes. 
Mrs. Rushton’s drawing-room was green and cool — all the Venetian 
blinds carefully closed on one side, and on the other looking out 
upon the trees and shady lawn where two or three young people, girls 
in light dresses and young men scarcely less summer-like in cos- 


280 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

tume, were playing croquet. These were the days when croquet 
still reigned on all lawns and country places, and nobody had as yet 
discovered that it was “ slow.” The party was of the usual ortho- 
dox kind. There was a young, a very young curate in a long black 
coat and a wide-awake, and a second young man in light clothes with 
his hands in his pockets, whom Lucy’s inexperienced eyes with 
difficulty distinguished from Raymond Rushton; and two or three 
girls, one of them the daughter of the house, Emma, a shy hoyden 
of sixteen. All these young people looked with great curiosity at 
Lucy as she followed Mrs. Rushton out of the house in her black 
frock, Jock clinging closely to her. Jock, though he had a great 
deal of self-possession on ordinary occasions, was shy in such an un- 
usual emergency as this. He had never been at a garden party, 
he was not used to society, and he did not know how to play cro- 
quet, in all which points Lucy was almost as uninstructed as he. 
There was a tea-table set out under an old mulberry-tree, with gar- 
den-chairs and rugs spread out upon the grass. Nothing could be 
more pleasant, cool, leisurely, and comfortable. It was indeed a 
scene such as might be seen on a summer afternoon in almost every 
garden with a good-sized house attached to it, with a lawn and a 
mulberry-tree, throughout England. But then Lucy was not much 
acquainted with such places, and to her everything was new. They 
all stood and looked at her as she followed Mrs. Rushton across the 
grass — looked at her with inward sighs and wonderings. To think 
she should be so rich, while none of the others had anything to speak 
of. It did not perhaps go so far as actual envy; but it was certainly 
surprise, and a bewildered question why such good fortune should 
have fallen to an inconsiderable girl, and not at all to the others 
who might have been supposed able to make so much more use of 
it. The young men could not help feeling lhat the enjoyment which 
they could have extracted out of so much money would have been 
far more than anything a girl could derive from it. Not one of 
the three perhaps went any further, or at least went so far as to ask 
whether there were any means by which he could appropriate such 
a fortune, except indeed Raymond, who w T as in a most uncomfort- 
able state, knowing that his mother intended him to begin at once 
to “ pay attention ” to Lucy, and not knowing in the least how to 
begin. Lucy was put into the most comfortable chair, as if she 
had been a dowager, atid even Jpck was wooed as he had never 
been wooed before. 

Oh, you will spoil learn how t£) play,” all the young people 
said in a chorus; <* it is very easy, ” ‘ 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS iE[ EtfGLAtfE. 


281 


Lucy thought they were all very kind, and she thought the lawn 
a*kind of little paradise, with all the sights and sounds of the ruder 
world shut out. 

“Emmie and I almost live here,” Mrs. Rushton said. “We 
bring out our work in the morning; you can’t think how pleasant 
it is. I wish, my dear Lucy, lhat it could have been arranged that 
you should live with your guardian instead of those good relations 
of yours. They are very nice, but it is always more cheerful where 
there are young people. I wish it could be managed. The Fords 
are excellent people; but they are in a different rank of society. I 
was speaking to Mr. Rushton about it, but he does not seem 1o think 
anything can be done; men are so entirely without resources. You 
may depend upon it I should find some way in which it could be 
done, if it depended on me.” 

“I don’t think it could be done, Mrs. Rushton; it is all very 
exact in the will.” 

‘ * Then I suppose you stand up very firmly by the will — in every 
particular, my dear?” Mrs. Rushton said, with a significant look. 

“ How could I help it?” said Lucy. She preferred looking at the 
croquet to discussing the will, and she wished Raymond would go 
and play, and not stand by her chair, looming over her. His 
mother looked at him from time to time, and when these appeals 
were piade he took his hands out of his pockets and grew red and 
cleared this throat. But nothing ever came of it. Lucy did not 
know what to say to this embarrassed young man; he seemed so 
much further off from her by being so much nearer than Sir Tom. 
At length she asked with some diffidence, “ Are you not going to 
play?” 

“ Oh, my mol her thought you would like — to walk round the 
garden.” 

“You goose!” cried his mother. “ The fact is, Lucy, Ray 
thought you would like to see all the old-fashioned corners. They 
are not like the gardens at the Hall. Oh, we don’t pretend to any- 
thing so fine; but we have heaps of flowers, and I think that is the 
chief thing. Ray is devoted to the garden— he wants so much to 
show you round.” 

And a few minutes after Lucy found herself walking by Ray, 
who was very shy, and had not a notion what to say to her, nor had 
she what to say to him. He took her along a commonplace path, 
and showed her the flower-beds— that is to say, he intimated, with 
a wave of his hand and a blush, that here were the roses, and there 
— “ I’m sure I don’t know what you call these things,” Ray said. 


282 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

“ Are you not very fond of flowers, then? I thought Mrs. Rush- 
ton — ” 

“ Oh, yes, I’m very fond of them — some, you know; but 1 never 
can remember the names; it is like songs— I’m very fond of music, 
but I never can remember the words. ’ ’ 

This was a long speech, and he felt better after it. However lit- 
tle inclined you may feel to do your duty, there is a sense of satis- 
faction in having done it. “ Do you sing?” he added, emboldened 
by his own success. 

** No,” Lucy said; and then the poor young fellow was balked, 
and the path which seemed to be opening before him was cut sud- 
denly short. He gave a sigh of disappointment, and plunged his 
hands deeper than ever into his pockets to seek inspiration there. 

“ Mamma thinks we should go out to-morrow,” he said. 

“Yes?” This monosyllable was interrogative, and gave him en- 
couragement. He cleared his throat again. 

” I could show you some very nice rides — the way to the picnic 
on Thursday is very pretty. Were you ever at the old abbey at 
Burnside? Quantities of people go — ” 

“ I have passed it,” said Lucy, “ when we rode at school.” 

“ Oh, did you ride at school? T don’t think that could be much 
fun — all girls. Picnics are not very much fun either.” 

“ I never saw one. I should think it would be nice,” said Lucy, 
with some doubt. 

“ Oh, well, perhaps if you were never at one before— I dare say 
it will be nice when — when you are there. Miss Trevor,” said Ray, 
growing very red; “ but then you see I never went with you be- 
fore. ’ ’ 

Lucy looked at him with some surprise, totally unable to divine 
why he should flourish so wildly the croquet-mallet he was carry- 
ing, and blush and stammer so much. She was entirely unaware 
that she had assisted at the production of Raymond’s first compli- 
ment. She took it very quietly, not knowing its importance. 

“ My mother thinks Emmie can ride,” he went on, after a con- 
fused pause; “but she can’t a bit. Some girls are famous— take 
fences, and everything you can put before them. There are the 
Morton girls — I suppose you know the Mortons?” 

“ I don’t know any one— except the girls who were at school.” 

“Oh, there were some great swells, were there not, ” said Ray- 
mond, “ at that school?” 

Perhaps for the first time Lucy felt a little pleasure in repeat- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKD. 283 

ing the names of her school-fellows, information which Raymond 
received with awe. 

“ That’s a cut above us,” he said; “ they were all awfully angry 
at home because the old ladies wouldn’t have Emmie. I suppose 
you were different.” 

“It was because of my having so much money, ” said Lucy, 
calmly. * ‘ Oh, but you need not laugh. Mrs. Stone said a girl 
with a great deal of money wanted more training.” 

“ I can’t see lhat,” cried Raymond; “ not a bit. It doen t take 
much education to spend a great fortune, when a fellow has to 
make his own way like me; I should think there was nothing so 
jolly as to have a lot of money, so much that you never could get 
through it; by Jove! I wonder how it feels,” he said, with a laugh. 
To this question, if it was a question, Lucy made no reply. It was 
the subject upon which she could talk best; but she was not a great 
talker, and Raymond was a kind of being very far off from her, 
whom she did not understand. 

“ I don’t think there is much more to see,” he said; ‘ there is not 
much. I can’t think what my mother meant to show you in the 
garden. Would you like to go back and try a game? I’ll teach 
you, if you like. I suppose I may say you will ride to the picnic? 
Emmie will go (as well as she knows how), and I — ” 

* ‘ If Jock may come, too. ’ ’ 

“Oh,” cried Raymond, “there will be no want of chaperons, 
you know. My mother is coming, and no doubt some more old 
ladies. It will be all right, you know, ” said the youth with a laugh. 
This speech made Lucy ponder, but confused her mind rather than 
enlightened it. She went back to the lawn with him into the midst of 
the croquet-players, with very little more conversation, and Mrs. 
Rushton, looking on anxiously, gnashed her teeth behind the tea- 
urn. “ He did not seem to me to find a word to say to her,” she 
lamented afterward; “ what’s the good of spending all that money 
on a boy’s education, if at the end of it he 'Can’t say a word for him- 
self.” And her husband answered with those comforting words 
which husbands have the secret of. “You had much better let 
scheming alone,” he said. “You will put me in a false position if 
you don’t mind, and you’ll never do any good to yourself.” We 
are ashamed to say the monosyllable was “ Stuff!” which Mrs. 
Rushton replied. 

But the afternoon was very pleasant to Lucy; and Jock enjoyed 
it too, after awhile, learning the game much more quickly than his 
sister, and getting into an excitement about it which she did not 


284 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


share. The little fellow remained in the foreground brandishing a 
mallet long after the party had melted away, and took possession of 
the lawn altogether, tyrannizing over the little Rushtons, wiien 
Lucy was taken in to dinner with the grown-up members of the 
family. “ Mrs. Rushton says you may come with me, Jock,” Lucy 
said; but Jock resisted strenuously. “ It is only when you go we 
can have a real game; you are all duffers,” said the little boy, with 
a contempt which he was much in the habit of showing to his sister. 
Thus they were launched upon life and society in Farafield. Mrs. 
Rushton proposed the brougham to Lucy when the time came to go 
home, but, on hearing that she would prefer to walk, declared that 
she too was dying for a little fresh air, and that the cool of the even- 
ing was delightful. Then they sallied forth in a body, Raymond by 
Lucy’s side. It was all very pleasant. He was not a brilliant 
talker, indeed, but Lucy did not want anything very brilliant, and 
what with the little pricks and stimulants provided by his mother, 
who walked behind, Raymond excelled himself. It was cheerful 
even to see the little party making its way along the cool twilight 
ways, with soft interchange of voices and laughter, little Jock again 
holding his sister’s hand, while Raymond was skillfully poked and 
bantered into talk. If it was a scheme it was not very deeply laid, 
and meant nothing cruel. Would not Raymond Rushton be a per- 
fectly good match for her, should it come to pass? and why should 
not Raymond haye the great fortune as well as another? His mother 
felt all the glow of virtuous consciousness in her breast. He was a 
good son, and would make a good husband. In every way, even in 
respect to family and position, old Trevor’s daughter in marrying 
Raymond would do very well for herself. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

POPULARITY. 

Lucy found the picnic very amusing. She had never known any 
of the delights of society; and the gay party in the Abbey ruins, 
and the ride— though Emmie did not know in the least how to sit 
her pony, and Raymond rode a tall and gaunt animal of extremely 
doubtful race, which might have drawn a fly, or a hearse, for any- 
thing his appearance said to the contrary— was pleasant all the same. 
The party was not very large, but it included the best people in 
Farafield; and among others the rector and his family, who were all 
very gracious to Lucy. “You must not forget that I am partially 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


285 


your guardian,” the rector said. “ If you flirt I have a right to pull 
you up. If you distinguish one young fellow more than another I 
shall probably ask what are your intentions? So beware,” he cried, 
laughing and holding up a finger of warning. And all the rectory 
girls were as friendly as if they had possessed a brother, which un- 
fortunately was not the case. “ If there had been a boy among us, 
of course he should have tried for the prize,” they all said with 
cheerful frankness, which Mrs. Rushton did not relish. 

Lucy, however, had a guardian who was more alarming than the 
rector. Out of civility to her, Philip had been asked, and Philip 
conducted himself in a way which called forth the dire displeasure 
of all who had any intentions upon Lucy’s peace. He was always 
appearing wherever she went, stalking continually across the scene, 
like a villain in a theater, appearing suddenly when least expected. 
“ What was the fellow afraid of?” the rector said; “he had no 
chance; he was not even in the running.” But he was Lucy’s 
cousin, and in this capacity he was privileged to push forward, to 
make his way tlrough a group, to call to her familiarly to “ come 
and see ’’ something, or even to persuade her that the thing she was 
invited to do on Hie other hand was impossible. “You can’t go 
there, Lucy, the mud would be up to your knees; come this way 
and I’ll show you all you want;” or, “ You never will be able for 
that climb, I will show you an easier way.” Thus Philip, who had 
been so irreproachable and popular, made himself disagreeable in 
society for the first time. Perhaps the chief cause of it was that 
Katie was there. He had taken himself sharply to task after that 
one evening of enchantment, which was so new and so unusual that 
he had given way to it without an effort. The more delicious it was, 
the more Philip had taken himself to task. He tried to analyze it, 
and make out how it was that he had been so deeply affected. A 
reasonable man, he said to himself, must be able to give an account 
of all the mental processes he passed through; but here was a men- 
tal process which was inexplicable. Every interest, every argument, 
pointed to Lucy as the object of his thoughts. And now that he 
saw Lucy among other people, and observed the court that was paid 
to her, it became intolerable to Philip to think of a stranger who 
had had nothing to do with the family, carrying her off and her' 
fortune, which belonged to the Rainys. He could not think of such 
a thing with composure. For himself he liked Lucy well enough, 
and probably the most suitable arrangement in the circumstances 
for both of them would have been the manage de convenance, which 
is not allowed as a natural expedient in England, in name at least. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


m 


But when he remembered the evening at the Terrace, when he had 
been so foolish, Philip could not understand himself. On various 
occasions he had attempted to analyze it — what was it? Lucy had 
blue eyes as well as Katie Russell, she was about the same height. 
To be sure her hair did not curl, and during the course of his 
analysis he recollected with dangerous distinctness the blowing out 
of the curls in the soft evening breeze. But who could analyze a 
curl, or understand how such an insignificant detail could give soft- 
ness to the air, and melody to the wind, and make the very stars in 
heaven look their best? One of the rector’s daughters had a great 
many curls, far more complete articles than the curls of Katie, but 
they did not produce the same effect. 

After this unsuccessful attempt at analysis, Philip kept himself 
away from Katie, and kept watch upon his cousin. He was deter- 
mined to appropriate the one, and if he could help, not so much as 
to see the other. It was the easiest way. But these two objects 
together made the picnic a very harassing and painful pleasure to 
the young school-master. When Raymond Rushton was pushed by 
his mother’s exertions to Lucy’s side, Philip did not fail to do his 
. best to hustle him politely away. He was constantly at hand with 
an appeal to Lucy, Lucy. At least he was determined- that every- 
body should see he had a claim upon her, and a prior claim to all 
the rest of the world. But.gtill he could not but remain conscious 
of the presence of the other girl. In all the guarded and careful in- 
tercourse which he had previously had with society in Farafield, as 
a man on his promotion, and anxiously attentive to rules, Philip 
had never asserted himself, never put himself into undue promi- 
nence, never presumed upon the kindness of the friends who were at 
the same time his patrons, before. But it could not be denied that 
he made himself disagreeable about Lucy that afternoon; her name 
was continually on his lips. He would let her have no rest. He 
stepped in front of everybody, broke up all the groups of which she 
formed a part, and followed her with vigilant watch everywhere. 
Had his relationship to the heiress turned his head, or was it possi- 
ble that he thought himself worthy of all that fortune, that he 
thought she would choose him for the partner of her splendor, the 
company asked each other? “ I am sure it is a thing to which Mr. 
Rushton for one would never give his consent,” said the giver of 
the feast. The rector was not quite so certain. “ After all it would 
be no mesalliance, for they are exactly in the same position,” he 
said; but then it was well known the rector looked upon his asso- 
ciation with Lucy’s other guardians as more a joke than a serious 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 287 

duty. Talks were going on about ber in almost every group, every- 
body was interested in the great heiress; people wished to be intro- 
duced to her, as if the poor little girl had been a notability, and so 
to be sure she was. 

The riding party went off rather earlier than the others, and be- 
fore the whole party was got under way a considerable time elapsed. 
Philip had insisted upon putting his cousin into her saddle himself; 
he was not clever at so unusual an office, and he could not help 
feeling, when she was gone, that he had not done himself any good 
by his assiduities. He was as sensitive as a thermometer to the 
fluctuation of public opinion, and he perceived at once that he had 
done himself harm. The company in geheral were not unwilling to 
let him see that nobody particularly wanted him, and that though 
they were kind and invited him, they did not expect any very great 
advantage from his presence. Thus Philip spent the interval in wan- 
dering about in a somewhat vague manner, not sought by any one. 
He could never tell how it was that at last he found himself in one 
of the carriages by Katie Russell’s side. He had not done it, nor 
had she done it, for Katie was greatly piqued by the persistent way 
in which he had avoided her, and her pride was up in arms; but 
when he turned his head and saw, in the gathering dusk, the little 
twist of the curl which he had been so utterly unable to analyze, a 
sudden change of sentiment, still farther beyond the reach of analy- 
sis, came over Philip. How was it? nothing more illogical, more 
unreasonable, ever happened to a philosophical school-master. In- 
stead of the uncomfortable state of effort in which he had spent the 
day, the young man’s soul glided back in a moment into that curi- 
ous lull of enchantment which had come over him at the Terrace. 
Once more the very air grew balmy and caressing, the earth 
smelled sweet, the night wind blew in his face like a caress, and all 
the individual sounds about ran into one hum of happiness, and 
satisfac tion, and peace. No cause for it! only the fact that it was 
that girl, and not another who sat next him in the break, among 
all the chattering and tlje laughter. Was there ever any cause so 
inadequate? but this was how it was. The carriage stopped oppo- 
site the Terrace to put down Katie. She had only a little way to 
walk from that point to the White House, which shone faintly 
through the darkness with a few lights in the windows. Philip did 
not quite know how, but somehow he had made his peace with 
Katie, and he it was who jumped down to help her out, and consti- 
tuted himself her escort. They walked again side by side down the 
same enchanted road. 


288 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ There is no mist to-night,' and not so many stars,” he said; and 
Katie answered, “ No, not half so many stars,” showing, as he said 
to himself afterward, that she remembered too. She was more seri- 
ous now than after that first evening at the Terrace, walking along 
very demurely by his side, and owning that she was tired. f ‘ But 
we have had a very pleasant day; don’t you think so, Mr. Rainy?” 
Katie asked; to which Philip answered, “ Ye-es,” with a little doubt. 

“The drive back has been delightful,” he said, “the air is so 
soft. I don’t know that I enjoyed so much the first part. It irri 
tates me, perhaps foolishly, to see the fuss all those people make 
about Lucy. It was really too much for me to-day; I felt bound 
to put a stop to it as far as I could. Lucy is a very nice girl, but to 
see them, you would think there was nobody like her. It makes 
me angry. I dare say it is very foolish, for Lucy is sensible enough 
to know that it is not herself but her money that so much court 
is paid to. But the drive home was worth all the rest put to- 
gelher,” Philip said, with fervor. This made Katie’s head droop a 
little with shyness and pleasure. 

“ It was very nice,’ 5 ’ she said, in more guarded tones, and with a 
little sigh of content. “ But, Mr. Rainy, you must not vex yourself 
about Lucy. That is what she has to go through, just as I must go 
through my govemessing. She is sure to have everybody after her 
wherever she goes, but she is so sensible it never makes any differ- 
ence; she is not spoiled a bit.” 

“ Do you think so? do you really think so? that will make my 
mind much more easy about her, ’ ’ said Philip. As if Katie was a 
judge! This was the reflection she herself made; and Katie could 
scarcely help laughing, under the shadow of night, at the sudden 
importance of her own judgment. But, after all, however young 
one may be, one feels that there is a certain reasonableness in any 
reliance upon one’s opinion, and she answered with a gravity that 
was not quite fictitious, that she was sure of it, and did all she 
could to comfort Philip, who, on his part, exaggerated his anxiety, 
and carefully refrained from all allusion to that secret unwilling- 
ness to let the great Rainy fortune go to any one else, which had 
moved him powerfully during the day. They took leave at the 
door of the White House, as they had done before, but not till 
after a pause and a lingering talk, always renewed upon some fresh 
subject by Philip just as she held out her hand to say good-night. 
He had held that hand quite two minutes in his, on the strength of 
some new and interesting subject which suddenly occurred to him 
at the last moment, when Katie, seized with a little panic, suddenly 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


289 


withdrew it and darted away. “ Good night,” she said, from the 
door-step, nodding her head and waving her hand as before, and 
once more Philip felt as if a curtain had dropped, shutting out 
heaven and earth, when the door opened and shut, and a gleam of 
light shone out, then disappeared. Analyze it! he could not analyze 
it. He had never been so happy before, nor so sad, nor so fortu- 
nate, nor so desolate; but how he could be so ridiculous as to be 
moved in this way, Philip could not tell. He went back along the 
dark road, going over every word she had said, and every look she 
had looked. Lucy’s window shone all the way before him, the 
light in it glimmering out from the dark front of the Terrace. It 
seemed to Philip that he could not get rid of Lucy. He felt impa- 
tient of her, and of her window, which seemed to call him, shining 
as with a signal-light. Its importunity was such, that he decided 
at last to cross the road and call at the door, and ask if she had got 
home in safety. It was an unnecessary question, but he was ex- 
cited and restless, half hating Lucy, yet unable to overcome the still 
greater hatred he had, and terror, of seeing her fall into some one 
else’s hands. When his voice was heard at the door, Mrs. Ford 
rushed out of her parlor with great eagerness. 

“ Come in, Philip, come in,” she cried; “ 1 heard the carriage 
stop, but what have you been doing all this time? I just hoped it 
might be you;” then she came close up to him and whispered, 

“ Lucy came in in such good spirits. She said you had been there; 
she said you had been very attentive. If you would like to have a 
horse to ride to go with them, to cut out that Raymond Rushton, 
don’t you hesitate, Philip; tell them to send the bill to me.” 

“ Is that Philip?” Lucy asked from the stairs, almost before the 
whisper was over. He was half flattered, half angry at the cor- 
diality of his reception. He walked upstairs to the drawing-room, 
feeling himself drawn by a compulsion which annoyed him, yet 
pleased him. The room was very bright with gaslight, the win- 
dows shut, as Mrs. Ford thought it righl they should always be at 
such a late hour. Lucy had been superintending Jock, who was 
audible in his little room behind humming himself to sleep. “ I 
thought it was your voice, Philip,” she said. “Did you like it? 
Thank you for being so kind to me, but I thought sometimes you 
did not like it yourself. ’ ’ 

“ I liked it well enough, but what I did not like was to see what 
a position you have been put into, Lucy,” said her cousin; “that 
was why I took so much trouble. It makes one think worse of hu- 
man nature.” 


10 


290 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

“ Because they are kind to me?” said Lucy, with surprise. 

“ Because they are — absurd,” said Philip. “You must see very 
well they can not mean all that. I should think a sensible girl 
would be disgusted. I wanted to show you what nonsense it all 
was, as if their whole happiness depended on showing you that 
waterfall, or the abbey tower or something. That was why I inter- 
fered.” 

“I thought.” said Lucy, “it was out of kindness; and that 
everybody was kind as well as you. ” 

“Kindness — that is all nonsense;” Philip felt, as he spoke, that 
of all the mistakes of the day none was so great as tfiis attempt to 
make Lucy uncomfortable, and to throw suspicion upon all the at- 
tention she had received, including his own; but he could not help 
himself. “ You will find out sooner or later what their motives 
are, and then you will remember what I have said.” 

Lucy looked at him very wistfully. “You ought to help me, 
Philip,” she said, “ instead of making it harder.” 

“ How do I make it harder? I only tell you that all that absurd 
adulation must conceal some purpose or other. But I am always 
very willing to help you, Lucy,” he said, softening; “ that is what 
I tried to do to-day.” 

When he had administered this lecture, Philip withdrew, bid- 
ding her good-night, without saying anything about the other good- 
night which had preceded this. “You may always rely upon 
me,” he said, as he went away. “ Thank you,” said Lucy, a little 
ruefully. He was her relation, and her natural counselor; but how 
unlike, how very unlike to Sir Toml She sighed, discouraged in 
her enjoyment of this moment, feeling that Philip was the best per- 
son to whom she could venture to confide any of those Quixotic 
projects which her father’s will had made lawful and necessary. 
He was the very best person who could tell her how much was nec- 
essary to give ease of mind and leisure to a sick young barrister. 
Philip was the only individual within her reach who could possibly 
have satisfied her, or helped her on this point. She sighed as she 
assisted at the putting out the gas. There was nobody but Sir Tom. 

Philip did not feel much more comfortable as he went away; he 
felt that he had done nothing but scold Lucy, and indeed his in- 
clination was to find fault with her, to punish her if he could for 
the contradiction of circumstances. That she should be capable of 
taking away all that fortune and bestowing it upon some one who 
was a stranger, who had nothing to do with the Rainys and who 
would probably condescend to, if he did not despise, the head of 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EXGLAXD. 


291 


that family, Philip himself, was intolerable to him. He felt that 
he oughl to interfere, he ought to prevent it, he ought to secure 
this wealth to himself. But then something gave him a tug exactly 
in the opposite direction. If it had but been Katie Bussell who 
was the heiress! She was nobody; it would be madness for him, a 
young man on his promotion, to marry thus as it were in his own 
trade, and condemn himself to be nothing but a school-master for- 
ever. Indeed it would be folly to marry at all— unless he married 
Lucy. A young man who is not married has still metaphorically 
all the world before him. He is very useful for a dinner-party, to 
fill up a corner. In most cases he is more or less handy to have 
about the house, to make himself of use. But a man who is mar- 
ried has come out from among the peradventures, and has his place 
fixed in society, whatever It may be. He has come to what promo- 
tion is possible, so far as society is concerned — unless indeed he has 
the power to advance himself without the aid of society. Katie 
Russell was a simple impossibility, Philip said to himself angrily, 
and Lucy — she was also an impossibility. There seemed nothing 
to be done all round but to rail against fate. When he had settled 
this with a great deal of heat and irritation, he suddenly dropped 
all at once into the serenest waters, into an absolute lull of all vexa- 
tion, into that state of semi-trance in which, though walking along 
Farafield Streets, toward Kent’s Lane, he was at the same time wan- 
dering on the edge of the common, with a soft rustle beside him of 
a muslin dress, and everything soft, from the stars in the sky, and 
the night air blowing in his face, to his own heart, which was very 
s^ft indeed, melting with the tenderest emotion. It could not do 
any one any harm to let himself go for this night only upon such a 
soft delightful current. And thus after all the agitations of the 
day, he ended it with his head in the clouds. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS. 

It will be seen from all this that Mrs. Ford was but an indiffer- 
ent guardian for an heiress. Her ideas of duty were of a peculiar 
kind. She had newly furnished the drawing-room. She had 
sweetbreads and other dainties for dinner. If Luc}' had been fond 
of cake, cr muffins, or buttered toast, she might have reveled in 
them; but it did not occur to the careful housekeeper to give her- 
gelf much trouble about Lucy’s visitors, When Mrs, Rushton 


292 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


called, indeed, Mrs. Ford would sail into tlie room in her stillest 
silk (which she kept spread out upon her bed, ready to put on at a 
moment’s notice) and take her part in the conversation; but she 
saw the young men come and go with the greatest indifference, and 
■did not disturb herself out of her usual habits for them. Though 
she entertained the worst suspicions in respect t<^ Mrs. Stone’s mo- 
tives, she did not object to St. Clair, neither did she dislike Ray- 
mond Rushton, though she saw through (as she thought) all his 
mother’s devices. We will not attempt to explain this entirely 
feminine reasonning. It was the reasoning of a woman on a lower 
level of society than that which considers chaperons necessary. 
She saw no harm in St. Clair’s appearance in the morning to teach 
Jock, though Lucy, not much better instructed than Mrs. Ford, 
was always present at tlie lessons, and profited too in a mild way. 
Mr. St. Clair came every morning, turning the pink drawing-room 
into a school room, and pursuing his work with so much conscience 
that Lucy herself began to learn a little Latin by listening to Jock’s 
perpetual repetitions. She was very anxious that Jock should 
learn, and consented to hear all the story about the gentleman and 
the windmills, in order to bribe him. “ I think he must have been 
cracked all the same,” Lucy said. “Oh, I don’t say, dear, that 
he was not a very nice gentleman; and after you have learned your 
lessons, you can tell me a little more.” Mr. St. Clair made himself 
of great use to Lucy too. He brought her books in which she could 
read her history at much less cost than in her dry text-books: and 
helped her on in a way for which she was unfeignedly grateful 
And after the intercourse of the morning there was the meeting 
afforded by that evening stroll in the half light after tea, which 
Jock considered his due. Mrs. Stone too loved that evening hour, 
and the soft dusk and rising starlight, and was always to be found 
on the common with her light Shetland shawl over her handsome 
head, under the dutiful escort of her nephew. The two little par- 
ties always joined company, and a great deal of instructive conver- 
sation went on. On one of these evenings, Lucy had been waylaid 
by a poor creal ure with a pitiful story which went to the girl’s 
heart. It had already tyecpme known in Farafield that there was 
in the Terrace a young lady who had a great deal of ready money, 
and a very soft heart. 

“ Who was that woman, Lucy?” said Mrs. Stone, as they met at 
the door of the White House. They had been standing there, wait- 
ing for her, aunt and nephew both, watching for her coming. “ I 
suppose she was a beggar; but you must take care not to give top 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLANP. 293 


much in that way, or to get yourself a reputation among them; you 
will be taken in on every side, and it will vex you to be deceived.” 

“Yes,” said Lucy, simply. “It would vex me very much, 
more than anything else I can think of. I would rather be beateu 
than deceived.” 

This made Mrs. Stone wince for a moment, till she reflected that 
she had no intention of deceiving Lucy, but, in reality, was trying 
to bring about the very best thing for her, the object of every girl’s 
hopes. 

“ Then who was this woman?” she said. 

“ Indeed, I did not ask her name. She was — sent to me. What 
do you think is right?” said Lucy, “ to give people money, or a 
little pension, or — ” 

“ A little pension, my dear child! a woman you know nothing 
about. No, no, give me her name, and I will have her case in- 
quired into, and if she is deserving — ’ ’ 

“ I don’t think it is anybody that is deserving, Mrs. Stone.” 

“ Lucy! my dear, you must not — you really must not, act in this 
independent way. What do you know about human nature? No- 
body who is not deserving should be allowed to come near a child 
of your age.” 

St. Clair laughed. “That might cut a great many ways,” he 
said. “Perhaps, in that case, you would have to banish most of 
the people Miss Trevor is in the habit of seeing.” 

n You, for example.” 

“ Th; t was what I was about to suggest,” he said, folding his 
hands with an air of great humility. This beguiled Lucy into a smile, 
as it was meant to do; and yet there was a certain sincerity in it — 
a sincerity which seemed somehow to make up for, and to justify 
in the culprit’s own eye, a good deal of deceit; though, indeed, St. 
Clair said to himself, like his aunt, that he was using no deceit; 
he was trying to get the love of a good and nice girl, one who 
would make an excellent wife; and what more entirely warrant- 
able, lawful, laudable action could a young man do? 

“ You are making fun,” said Lucy, “ but I am in great earnest. 
Papa, in his will, ordered me to give away a great deal of money. 
He did not say anything about deserving: and if people are in 
great want, in need — is it not as hard, almost worse, for the bad 
people than for the good?” 

“ My dear, that is very unsafe, very dangerous doctrine. In this 
way you would reward the bad for having ruined themselves.” 

“Or make up to them,” said St. Clair, “a little— as much as 


294 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

any one can make up for that greatest of misfortunes — for being 
bad.” 

Lucy looked from one to another, bewildered, not knowing which 
to follow. 

“ Yes, it is the greatest of all misfortunes; but still that is sophis- 
try; that argument is all wrong. If the good and the bad got just 
the same, why should any one be good?” 

“Oh!” said Lucy, with a heave of her breast; but though her . 
heart rose and the color came to her cheeks, she had not sufficient 
power of language to communicate her sentiments, and she was 
grateful to St. Clair, who interposed. 

“ Do you think,” he said, “that any one is good, as you say, for 
what he gets? One is good because one can’t help it — or for the 
pleasure of it — or to please some one else if it does not please one’s 
self.” 

“ For shame, Frank, you take all the merit out of goodness,” his 
aunt said. 

“ Oh, no!” Lucy breathed out of the bottom of her heart. She 
could not argue, but her soft eyes turned upon St.Clair with grati- 
tude. Perhaps he was not quite right either, but he was far more 
right than Mrs. Stone. 

4 ‘ Miss Trevor agrees with me, ’ ’ he said quietly, as if that settled 
the question; and Lucy would not have been human had she not 
been gratified, and flattered, and happy. She looked at him with a 
silent glow of thanks in her eyes, even though in her heart she felt 
a slight rising of ridicule, as if it could matter whether she agreed 
or not! 

44 This is all very fine,” said Mrs. Stone, 44 but practically it re- 
mains certain that the people who merit your kindness are those to 
whom you ought to give it, Lucy. I did not know your father had 
left instructions about your charities. ’ ’ 

44 He did not quite mean charities,” said Lucy; 44 it was that I 
should help people who wanted help. He thought we — owed it, 
having so much: and I think so too.” 

44 And therefore you were meditating a pension to the first beggar 
that came in your way. My dear child! you will be eaten up by 
beggars if you begin with this wild liberality.” 

44 It was not exactly — a beggar; it is not that I mean.” 

44 1 will tell you what to do,” said Mrs. Stone, 44 take the names 
of the people who apply to you, and bring them to me. I will have 
the cases thoroughly sifted. We have really a very good organiza- 
tion for all that kind of thing in Farafield, and I promise you, Lucy, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


295 


that if there is any very hard case, or circumstances which are very 
pitiful, even though the applicant be not quite deserving, you shall 
decide for yourself and give if you wish to give; but do let them be 
sifted first.” 

Lucy said nothing; to have “ cases ” which should be “ sifted ” 
by Mrs. Stone, did not seem at all to correspond with her instruc- 
tions; and again it was St. Clair who came to her aid. 

“ The holidays are very nearly over,” he said, “ and we have a 
little problem of our own to settle. Do you know, Miss Trevor, 
my aunt meditates sending me away.” 

“Oh!” cried Lucy, with alarm. She turned instinctively to Jock, 
who was roaming about the common before them. “But what 
should we do then?” she said, with simplicity. The guardians had 
not yet interfered about Jock’s training; they had left the little fel- 
low in her hands; and Lucy was very much solaced and comforted 
by the arrangement in respect to her little brother which St. Clair’s 
delicate health had permitted her to make. 

“ You forget that I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am a raven- 
ing lion, seeking whom I may devour. I am an enemy in the camp. ” 

“ Is that all because he is a gentleman?” said Lucy to Mrs. Stone, 
with wondering eyes. 

It was not Mrs. Stone who replied, but Miss Southwood, who had 
now come out to join them, and who had heard St. Clair’s descrip- 
tion of himself. She nodded her nead, upon which was a close 
“ cottage bonnet ” of the fashion of thirty years ago. 

“ Yes, yes,” she said, “ it is quite out of the question, it is not to 
be permitted; not one of the parents would consent to it if they 
knew.” 

“The parents do not trouble me much,” Mrs. Stone said, rais- 
ing her head; “ when I think a thing is right, I laugh at parents. 
They are perfectly free to take the girls away, if they object; I 
judge for myself.” 

“But you must not laugh at parents,” said the timid sister. 
“ Maria! you make me shiver. I don’t like you to say it even on 
the common, where there is nobody to hear. There is that child 
with his big eyes; he might come out with it in any society. Laugh 
at — parents! You might as well say you don’t believe in the — Brit- 
ish Constitution, or the — Reformation, or — even the House of Com- 
mons or the Peerage,” Miss Southwood said hurriedly, by way of 
epitomizing everything that is sacred. 

“ The Reformation is quite out of fashion, it is vulgar to profess 
any relief in that; and at all times, ” said Mrs. Stone, “ popular insti- 


296 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH ENGLAND. 


tutions are to be treated with incredulity, and popular fallacies with 
contempt. Frank is not a ravening lion, he wants to devour no- 
body but — Jock. Yes, when you do bad exercises he would like 
to swallow you at one gulp. ’ ’ 

“ Is he going away?” said Jock, whom this reference to himself 
had roused to attention. Then he said with authority, “ He had 
better come and live with us, there’s a spare room; Lucy wants 
him as much as me. I know there is something she wants, for she 
looks at him when nobody is noticing, like this — ” And Jock gave 
such an imitation of Lucy’s look as was possible to him. 

This strange speech made an extraordinary commotion in the 
quiet group. The two sisters and St. Clair sent each other rapid 
telegraphic messages by some kind of electricity, which went through 
them all. It was one look of wonder, satisfaction, consternation, 
delight that flashed from one pair of eyes to the other, and brought 
a sudden suffusion to all their faces. As for Lucy, she took it a 
great deal more quietly. They had the look of having made a dis- 
covery, but she did not betray the consciousness of one who has 
been found out. 

“ Indeed, I hope Mr. St. Clair will stay, I don’t think it would 
make any difference to the girls,” she said; and then she added, 
with a little excitement, “ How strange it will be to see them all 
back again, and me so different!” 

Grammar had never been Lucy’s strong point. 

“ Shouldn’t you like to come backf” 

Lucy laughed and shook her head. 

“I can’t tell,” she said. “ I should — and yet how could I? I am 
so different. And by and by I should have to go away again. How 
strange it is that in such a little time, that has been nothing to 
them, so much should have happened to me.” 

There passed rapidly through Lucy’s mind as she spoke a review 
of the circumstances and people who had furnished her with so 
many varied experiences. First and greatest stood the Randolphs, 
and that other world of life in London, w r hich she knew was "wait- 
ing for her in the shut- up rooms, all shutters and brown-holland, 
in Lady Randolph’s house. She seemed to see these rooms, closed 
and dim, with rays of light coming in through the crevices, and 
everything covered up, in which her life was awaiting her. The 
other scenes flitted across her mind like shadows, the episode of the 
Russells, the facts of her present existence — all shadows; butGrosve- 
nor Street was real, though all the shutters were shut. While this 
was passing through her mind, the others were giving her credit 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


297 


for visions very different. They glanced at each other again,” and 
Mrs. Stone took her nephew’s arm and gave it a significant press- 
ure. She was too much elated to be capable of much talk. 

“We must see Lucy home,” she said. “ It is getting late, and 
dear little Jock ought to be in bed. I am always glad to see my 
girls come back; but there is one thing I shall grudge, these even- 
ing strolls; they have been very sweet.” 

“ Then you have made up your mind, notwithstanding Miss 
Trevor’s intercession (for which 1 thank her on my knees), to send 
me away?” 

“ I can not send you away while you are necessary to the comfort 
of— these dear children,” Mrs. Stone said. There was a little break 
of emotion in her voice, and Lucy listened with some surprise. She 
was ( carcely aware that she had interceded, yet in reality she was 
very glad that Mr. St. Clair should stay. She observed that he held 
her hand a moment longer than was necessary, as he bade her 
good-night, but she did not attach any meaning to this. It was an 
accident; she was too greatly indifferent to notice it at all. 

And thus the tranquil days went on; the girls came back, but 
Mr. St. Clair did not go away. He was faithful to Jock and his 
lessons, and very sympathetic and kind to Lucy, though he did not 
at all understand the semi-abstraction into which she sometimes fell 
in his presence, and which was due to her anxious self-inquiries 
how she could propound to him the question of permanent help. 
Indeed this abstraction deceived St. Clair as much as his devotion 
was intended to deceive her. He was taken in his own toils, or, 
rather, he fell into the trap which little Jock had innocently laid 
for him. When Lucy looked at him, he thought that he could see 
the keen interest which the child had discovered in her eyes; and 
when she did not look at him, he thought she was averting her eyes 
in maiden bashfulness for fear of betraying herself; and he per- 
mitted himself to watch her with more and more tender and close 
observation. He was far cleverer and more experienced than Lucy, 
but her simplicity deceived him; and as he gave Jock his lessons, 
and watched the tranquil figure of the girl sitting by, St. Clair felt, 
with a throb of excitement, that he was approaching a sort of 
fabulous termination, a success more great than anything he had 
ever actually believed in. For, as a matter of fact, he had never 
really believed in this chance which his aunt had set before him. 
He had “ gone in for ” Lucy as he would have “ gone in for ” any 
other temporary pursuit which furnished him with something to 
(Jp, and satisfied the relatives op whom he was more dependent 


298 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

than was agreeable. But now suddenly the chase had become real, 
the chance a possibility, or more than a possibility. In such cir- 
cumstances, what suitor could avoid a growing excitement? The mo- 
ment the thing became possible, it became wildly exciting, a hurry- 
ing pursuit, a breathless effort. Thus while Lucy’s thoughts were 
gravely fixed upon what she considered the chief business of her 
life, St. Clair, on his side, pursued the object of his with an ardor 
which increased as the end of the pursuit seemed to draw near. His 
voice took tender inflections, his eyes gave forth glowing glances, 
his aspect became more and more that of a lover; but Lucy, preoc- 
cupied and inexperienced, saw nothing of this, and there was no 
one else to divine what the unlucky wooer meant, unless, indeed it 
might be Jock, who saw and heard so much more than any one 
supposed, so much more than he himself knew. 

Side by side along with this pursuit was that of which Mrs. Ford 
more clearly perceived the danger, the wooing of Mrs. Rushton 
and her son Ray. Mrs. Ford’s instinct was just, it was the mother 
who was the more dangerous of the two. Ray, with his hands in 
his pockets, did not present much of the natural appearance of a 
hero, and he had still less of the energy and spontaneousness of a 
successful lover than he had cf the appearance which wins or 
breaks hearts, but, nevertheless, by dint of unwearied exertions, he 
was kept more or less up to the mark. Lucy had another constant 
visitor, about whose “ intentions ” it was less easy to pronounce. 
Philip Rainy began to come very often to the Terrace; he scorned 
Ray Rushton, and he paid the compliment of a hearty dislike to St. 
Clair, he was suspicious of both, and of all others who appeared in 
the neighborhood; but this was in the true spirit of the dog in the 
manger, for his own purposes were more confused than ever, and 
he had no desire to make any effort 1o appropriate to himself the 
great prize. He stood by and looked on in a state of jealous watch- 
fulness, sometimes launching a word of bitter criticism against his 
cousin; but unable to force himself to enter the lists, or take a 
single step to obtain what he could not make up his mind to resign. 
Sometimes Katie Russell would be with hei friend, and then the 
young school- master went through such tumults of feeling as no- 
body had thought him capable of. He was the only one that had 
any struggle in his mind; but his was a hard one. Love or advan- 
tage, which was it to be? By this time it was very clear to him that 
they had no chance to be united in his case. 

It was now October, but the weather was still warm, and it was 
still possible to play croquet on the lawn, amid an increased party 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


299 


of young people, the only kind of dissipation which Lucy’s mourn- 
ing made practicable. Mrs. Rushton : s regrets were great that a 
dance was not possible, but she knew better than to attempt such a 
thing, and set all the gossips going. “ Next year everything will 
be very different,” she said, “unless in the meantime some fairy 
prince comes and carries our Lucy away.” 

“Iam her guardian, and I will have nothing to say to any fairy 
prince, ’ ’ Mr. Rushton said. They both gave a glance at their son 
as they spoke, who was a good-looking young fellow enough, but 
not much like a Prince Charmant. And Lucy smiled and accepted 
the joke quite calmly, knowing nothing of any such hero. She 
heard all his mother's praise of Raymond quite unmoved, saying 
“Indeed,” and “That was very nice;” but without the faintest 
gleam of emotion. It was very provoking. Mrs. Rushton had 
made up her mind that Lucy was not a girl of much feeling, but 
yet would be insensibly moved by habits of association, and by 
finding one person always at her elbow wherever she moved. Ray- 
mond, in the meantime, had profited in a way beyond his hopes. 
He had got a horse, the better to accompany the heiress on her rides, 
and his money in his pocket was more abundant; but when his 
mother spurred him up to a greater display of devotion, the young 
man complained that he had not encouragement. “ Encourage- 
ment!” Mrs. Rushton cried; “a girl with no one can tell how 
many thousands a year, and you want encouragement!” It seemed 
to her preposterous. Oh, that mothers could but do for sons what 
they are so lukewarm in doing for themselves! Mrs. Rushton did 
all that was possible. She told tales of her boy’s courage and un- 
selfishness, which were enough to have dazzled any girl, and hinted 
and insinuated his bashful love in a hundred delicate ways. But 
Lucy remained obtuse to everything. She was not clever nor had 
she much imagination, and love had not yet acquired any place in 
her thoughts. 

This was to be the last croquet-party of the season, and all that 
was fair and fashionable and eligible in Farafield was gathered on 
the lawn, round which the scarlet geraniums were blazing like a 
gorgeous border to a great shawl. Rarely had Lucy seen so gay a 
scene. When she had herself got through a game, which she did 
not particularly care for, she was allowed to place herself in one of 
the low basket-chairs near the tea-table, at which Mrs. Rushton was 
always seated. “Was there ever such a child?” Mrs. Rushton 
said; “ she prefers to sit with us dowagers rather than to take her 
share in the game.” 


$00 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


“ And what is still more wonderful,” said an old lady, who pet* 
haps did not care to hear herself called a dowager, “ your son Ray- 
mond seems of the same opinion, though he is a hot croquet-player, 
as we all know.” 

“ Oh, Ray; I hope he is too civil to think w T hal he likes himself,” 
his mother said, with well-assumed carelessness. But this did not 
take anybody in. And all the elder people watched the heiress, as 
indeed the younger ones did also in the midst of their game; for 
though Lucy did not greatly care for his attendance, there were 
some who prized Ray, and to w T hom his post at her elbow was very 
distasteful. He was very faithful to that post on this occasion, for 
St. Clair had posted himself on Lucy’s other hand, and Raymond’s 
energies were quickened by opposition. 

“ Why does not Miss Trevor play croquet?” St. Clair said. 

“ I have been playing; but it is prettier to look on,” said Lucy; 
“ and I am not at all good. I have never been good at any game.” 

“You are quite good enough for me, Miss Trevor,” said Ray. 
“ I never can get on with your fine players, who expect you to 
study it; now Walford does study it. He gets up in the morning 
and practices.” 

“ Mr. Walford is a clergyman, it is part of his duty,” said St. 
Clair. “ A layman has a great many exemptions. He may wear 
colored ties, and he need not play croquet — unless he likes.” Now 
Raymond had a blue tie, which was generally considered very be- 
coming to him. 

“ Do you remember the day we had at the old abbey?” said Ray. 
“ I wonder if we could do that again this season. It was very jolly. 
Don’t you think we might try it again, Miss Trevor? The ruins are 
all covered with that red stuff that looks so nice in the autumn;, 
and I hear Mayflower is all right again this morning. I went to, 
the stable to ask. I thought as sure as fate she had got a strain; I 
had a long talk with Simpson about her.” 

“ It was very kind of you, Mr. Rushton.” 

“ Oh, not at all kind — but you can’t think I should not be inter- 
ested in Mayflower. If she did not carry you so nicely even, she’s 
a beauty in herself. And she does carry you beautifully— or rather 
it’s you, Miss Trevor, that — ” 

“Yes,” said St. Clair, “ lhat is how I would put it. It is you. 
Miss Trevor, who witch the world with such noble horsemanship 
that any animal becomes a beauty. That is the right way to put it.” 

“But there is no noble horsemanship in my case,” Lucy saidt 
with a smile. 


!THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH E&GLAHD. 


301 


“ Oh, come, I don’t know that,” cried Ray; “if it comes to cir- 
cus tricks that wouldn’t answer for a lady; hut there aren’t many 
better riders than you, Miss Trevor. You don’t make any show, 
but you sit your mare as if you were cut out of one piece, you and 
she. ’ ’ 

‘‘That is quite a poetical description,” St. Clair said. “Why 
am I only a pedestrian, while you two canter by? You cover me 
with dust, and my heart with ashes and bitterness when you pass 
me on the road. Why is one man carried along on the top of the 
wave, in the most desirable company, while another trudges along 
in the dust all by himself? Your ride opens all the problems of life, 
Miss Trevor, to the poor wretch you pass on the way. 

Lucy looked at him wistfully. It was the look which Jock had 
described, and it moved St. Clair greatly, but yet he did not know 
what meaning was in her eyes. Mrs. Rushton saw it too, and it 
seemed to her that St. Clair was getting the best of it. She called 
to him suddenly, and he left his post with great reluctance. He ■ 
had more to say than they had, he had more experience altogether; 
and it was not to subject the heiress to the seductions of Mrs. 
Stone’s nephew that Mrs. Rushton had asked him here. 

‘‘Don’t you play?” she said; “they are just looking for some* 
one to make up the game. It would be so kind of you to join 
them. I know they are rather young for you, Mr. St. Clair, but it 
would be all the more kind if you were to play.” 

“ It would be too kind,” he said; he had all his wits about him; 

‘ ‘ they do not care for grandfathers like myself. Let me look on as 
becomes my years, or, better still, let me help you. There must be 
some lady of my own standing who wants to be helped to some 
tea.” 

‘‘You are too quick for me,” she said; “ you know that is not 
what I mean; you must not stay among the dowagers. The girls 
would never forgive me if I kept all the best men here.” 

“ Ah, is that so?” he said. “ But we are making ourselves very 
useful. Your son is taking charge of Miss Trevor, who is a very 
important person, and requires a gr£at deal of attention, and I am 
handing the cake. Mrs. Walfprd, you will surely take some; I am 
charged to point out to you how excellent it is.” 

‘‘It is too good for me,” said the old lady whom he addressed, 
shaking all the flowers on her bonnet. She was the curate’s mother, 
and she thought it her duty to back her hostess up. ‘‘You should 
not mind us, Mr. St. Clair; the girls will be quite jealous if they 
see all the young men handing cake.” 


302 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


“ Then I must take it to Miss Trevor,” St. Clair said. 

Meanwhile Ray was taking advantage of his opportunity. 
“ Won’t you come for a turn, Miss Trevor? Some fellows are so 
pushing they never know when they ' are wanted. Do come if it 
Was just to give him the slip. Why should he be always hanging 
on here? Why ain’t he doing something? If a fellow is out in the 
world, he ought to stay out in the world, not come poking about 
here.” 

“He is not strong, he is not well enough for his profession,” 
Lucy said. 

“ Oh, that is bosh. I beg your pardon, Miss Trevor, but only 
look at him, he is fat. If he is not strong it is the more shame for 
him, it is because he has let himself get out of training,” Ray said. 

Lucy glanced at St. Clair with the cake in his hand, and a very 
small laugh came from her. She could not restrain it altogether, 
but she was ashamed of it. He was fat. He w r as more handsome 
than Ray, and a great deal more amusing; and he had an interest 
to her besides which no one understood. She could not dismiss 
from her mind the idea that he was a man to be helped, and yet 
she could not but laugh, though with a compunction. A man who 
can be called fat appeals to no one’s sympathies. She had got up 
rather reluctantly on Raymond’s invitation, but he had not suc- 
ceeded in drawing her attention to himself. She was still standing 
in the same place when St. Clair hastened back. 

“You are going round the grounds,” he said, “ d la bonne heure 
take me with you, please, and save me from croquet. I don’t 
know the mysteries of the labyrinths, the full extent of Mr. Rush- 
ton’s grounds.” 

“ Oh, there is no labyrinth*,” Lucy said. 

“And there are no mysteries,” cried Ray, indignantly; three 
people walking solemnly along a garden-path abreast is poor fun. 

“ Didn’t my mother put croquet on the card?” he added; “it is 
always for croquet the people are asked. It is a pity you don’t like 
it.” Ray wanted very much to be rude, but he was better than his 
temper, and did not know how*to carry out his intention. 

“ Isn’t it?” said St. Clair coolly; “ a thousand pities. I am al- 
ways getting into trouble in consequence, but what can I do, Miss 
Trevor? I hate croquet. It is plus fort que mot; and you do not 
like it either?” 

“ Not very much,” Lucy answered, and she moved along some- 
what timidly between the two men who kept one on each side of 
her. Raymond did not say much. It was he who had brought her 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


303 


away, who had suggested “ a turn,” hut it was this fellow who was 
getting the good of it.. Ray’s heart was very hot with indignation, 
but his inventive powers were not great, and in his anger he could 
not find a word to say. 

“It is a peculiarity of society in England that we can not meet 
save on some practical pretence or other. Abroad,” said St. Clair, 
with all the confidence of a man who has traveled, “ conversation is 
always reason enough. After all, it is a talk we want, not games. 
We want to know each other better, to bfecome better friends; that 
is the object of all social gatherings. The French understand all 
these things so much better than we.” 

This the two young people beside him listened to with awe, nei- 
ther of them having ever set foot on foreign soil. 

“ For my part,” cried Ray, suddenly, “ I don’t see the good of 
that constant chattering. Far better do something than to be for- 
ever talk — talking. It may suit the French, who ain’t good for 
much else; but we want something more over here. Besides, what 
can you talk about?” the young man went on; “ things can’t hap- 
pen just to give you a subject, and when you have said it’s a fine 
day, and what a nice party that was at the Smiths, what more have 
you got to say?” 

“I quite agree with you,” said St. Clair; “when you have no 
more than that to say it is a great deal better to play at something. 
But yet conversation has its advantages. Miss Trevor, here is one 
last rose. It is the last that will come out this season. Oh, yes, 
there are plenty of buds, but they are belated, they will never get 
to be roses. There will come a frost to-night and slay them all in 
their nests, in their cradles. This one is all the sweeter for being on 
the edge of ruin. I will gather it for you. A flower,” he said, in 
a low tone, which Ray could only half hear, ‘ ‘ is all a poor man can 
offer at any shrine.” Raymond looked on, crimson with indigna- 
tion. It was on his lips to bid this interloper offer what belonged 
to himself, not a flower out of another man’s garden; but when St. 
Clair tore his finger on a thorn, the real proprietor of the rose was 
enchanted; but even this the fellow managed to turn to his own ad- 
vantage. “ It has cost me more than I thought,” he said, so low 
that this time Ray could not hear anything but a murmur. “ It is 
symbolical, I would give all that is in my veins; but it should buy 
you something better.” Ray did not hear this; but Lucy did, and 
it filled her soul with wonder. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. 
She had not even read so many novels as she ought, and she was 
more puzzled than flattered. Besides, Lucy’s mind was confused 


304 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


with the thought, so strong in Raymond’s consciousness, that to cut 
other people’s roses was a doubtful generosity. • She stammered a 
little as she thanked him, and looked as if asking permission of 
Ray. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Rushton ought perhaps to have it, as there are so few 
roses now,” Lucy said. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE FIRST PROPOSAL. 

“ Lucy, I never thought you were a flirt before,” said Mrs. Rush- 
ton, half severe, half jocular. They did not walk home with her 
now, as they had done in the warm August evenings. It was now 
dark, and almost all the company had dispersed, and the brougham 
had been ordered to take Miss Trevor home. 

“ A flirt!” Lucy looked up with great surprise at the word. 

“ Oh, yes, you may look astonished; perhaps you don’t call that 
flirting; but I am old-fashioned. No one has been able to get a 
word with you all the evening. Now recollect,” said Mrs. Rush- 
ton, shaking a forefinger at the culprit. “I am very prim and 
proper, and I have Emmie to think of. You must not set her a bad 
example; and there’s poor Ray. You have not a bit of feeling for 
poor Ray.” 

Lucy looked at her with very serious inquiring eyes, and went 
home with a consciousness that there was a rivalry between Mr. St. 
Clair and Raymond, in which she was more or less involved. Lucy 
was not very quick of understanding, and neither of them had said 
anything to her which was quite unmistakable. Had they men- 
tioned the words love or marriage, she would have known what she 
had to encounter at once; but she was not on the outlook for im 
plied admiration, and their assiduities scarcely affected her. St. 
Clair was Jock’s tutor, and in constant communication with her, 
and, no deubt, she thought, it was Mrs. Rushton who made Ray 
mond take so much care of her. This was a shrewd guess, as the 
reader knows, and, therefore she did not trouble herself about Ray’s 
attentions, or wonder at the devotion of St. Clair. But she had a 
faint uneasy feeling in her mind. The rose which she had fastened 
in her dress was very sweet, and kept reminding her of that scene 
in the garden. This pricked Lucy’s conscience a little as she drove 
home in the dark alone with it. It ought to have been given to 
Mrs, Rushton, not to her; the last Devoniensis, sweet like m echo 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


305 


of summer, the only one that was left. St. Clair had no right to 
gather it, nor she to wear it. It was a robbery in its way, and this 
made her uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than the accusation 
of flirting, of which Lucy felt innocent. The night was dark, but 
very soft and warm for the season, not even a star visible, every- 
thing wrapped in clouds and dimness. When the brougham stopped 
at the door in the Terrace, some one appeared at once to open it for 
her, to help her out. “Mr. St. Clair!” she cried, almost with 
alarm. “ Yes,” he said; he was not much more than a voice ancLa 
big shadow, but still she could not have any doubt about him. “ I 
hurried on to do my duty as Miss Trevor’s servant; they would not 
have let me walk home with you, but I was determined to pay my 
duty here.” 

Lucy was embarrassed by this new attention, “ I am so sorry you 
have taken so much trouble,” she said. “I always wait till they 
have opened the door. Ah! here they are coming; there was no* 
need, indeed, of any one. I am sorry you took the trouble ” 

“Trouble!” he said, “that is not the word. Ah, Miss Trevor, 
thanks! you are wearing my rose.” 

“Indeed!” said Lucy. “I am afraid it is not right to cut it. 
Mr. Raymond looked — it was the last one; v »and it was theirs — not 
ours.” 

“ The churl!” said St. Clair; “ he ought to have been too proud 
if you had put your foot upon it, instead of wearing it. How sweet 
it is! it is where it ought to be.” Then he paused, detaining her 
for a moment. “ Yes, the door is open,” he said, with a sigh. 4 1 
can not deny it. Good-night then— till to-morrow.” 

“ Good-night!” said Lucy, calmly. She wondered what was the 
matter? Whal did he mean by it? He held her hand closely, but 
did not shake it as people in their ordinary senses do when they 
bid you good-night, and he Kept Mrs. Ford standing at the door 
with her candle in her hand, blown about by the draught. Mrs. 
Ford was sleepy, she did not pay much attention to Lucy’s com- 
panion. It was \ ast ten o’clock, an hour at which all the Ford 
household went to bed; and Mrs. Ford knew herself to be very 
virtuous and self-denying in sitting up for Lucy, and was a little 
cross in consequence. She said only, “ You are late, Lucy. I 
wonder what pleasure it can be to anybody to be out of bed at this 
hour,” and shut the door impatiently. The lights were all out ex- 
cept Mrs. Ford’s candle, and the darkness in-dpors was very differ- 
ent from that soft darkness out of doors. It was only half past ten, 
yet Lucy felt herself dissipated, She was glad to huriy upstairs. 


306 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Jock opened his big eyes as she went through the room in which 
he slept. He put up a sleepy hand, and softly stroked her rose as 
she bent down to kiss him. The rose seemed the chief point alto- 
gether in the evenihg. She put it into water on her table, and went 
to bed with a little tremulous sense of excitement. But she could 
not tell why she was excited. 

It was something in the air, something independent of her, a 
breath as from some other atmosphere straying into her own. 

As for St. Clair, he stumbled home across the common, almost 
losing his way, as the night was so dark, with a little excitement in 
his mind too. When he got into Mrs. Stone’s parlor, where she 
sat at the little meal which was her special and modest indulgence, 
he Was greeted by both ladies with much interest and many ques- 
tions. “ Did it go off well?” Miss South wood said, who liked to 
hear what there had been to eat at the “ heavy tea ” which followed 
the croquet party, and whether there had been wine on the table in 
addition to the tea. But Mrs. Stone looked still more anxiously in 
Frank’s face. “ Are you getting on? Are you making progress?” 
was what she said. To which he answered, with a great deal of 
earnestness, in the words of the poet: 

“ ‘ He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 

Who dares not put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all. 1 11 

“ Has it come so far as that?” said Mrs. Stone. 

“ I think so; but do not ask me any more questions,” he said, 
and he was treated with the utmost delicacy and consideration. 
Without another word, a plate with some of Mrs. Stone’s delicately 
cooked dish was set before him, and a large glass of East India 
sherry poured out, far better fare than the cold viands and tea pre- 
pared for Mrs. Rushton’s many guests, while the conversation was 
gently led into another channel. His feelings could not have been 
more judiciously studied, for he had been too much intent upon 
Lucy to eat much at the previous meal, and agitation is exhausting. 
The only further allusion that was made to the crisis was when 
Mrs. Stone bade him good-night. She kissed him on the cheek, 
and said softly, ” I quite approve your action if you think the oc- 
casion is ripe for it, but do not be premature, my dear boy. ” 

“ No, I will not be premature,” he said, smiling upon her. His 
heart expanded with a delightful self-confidence. It did not seem 
to him that there was any cause to fear, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 30 ? 


And as lie sat in the little room at the end of the long passage, 
where he was permitted to smoke, and watched the floating clouds 
that rose from his cigar, the imaginations which rose along with 
these circling wreaths were beautiful. He saw within his grasp a 
something sweeter than love, more delicious than any kmd of dalli- 
ance. Wealth! the power of doing whatever he pleased, stepping 
at once into a position, he, the unsuccessful, which would leave all 
the successful men behind, and dazzle those who had once passed 
him by in the race. He was not disinclined toward Lucy. He felt 
it was in him indeed to be fond of her, who could do so much for 
him. She could open to him the gates of paradise, she could make 
# him the happiest man in the world. These hyperboles would be 
strictly true, far more true than they were in the majority of the 
cases in which they were uttered with fullest sincerity. But nobody 
could be more sincere than Frank St. Clair in his use of the well- 
worn formulas. It was nothing less than blessedness, salvation, an 
exemption from ills of life which Lucy had it in her power to confer. 

Next morning he went as usual to the Terrace and gave Jock his 
lesson with a mind somewhat disturbed. The littie fellow with his 
grammar, the tranquil figure of the girl over her books, the ordi- 
nary aspect of the room, with which he was growing so familiar, had 
the strangest effect upon him in the state of excitement in which he 
found himself. The monotony of the lesson which had to be made 
out all the same, word by word, and the strange suspense and ex- 
pectation in which he sat amid all the calmness of the domestic 
scene, made St. Clair’s head go round. He did not know how to 
support it; and it was before his hour was out that he suddenly in- 
terrupted Jock’s repetition with a sudd(n harsh whisper. 

“ Hun and play,” he said; ‘ that is enough for to-day.” 

He had not even heard what Jock had been saying for the last ten 
minutes. The child looked up in the utmost surprise. He was 
stopped in the middle of a sentence, the words taken out of his 
mouth. He looked with his eyes opening wide. 

“ Run and play,” St. Clair repeated, his lips were quite dry with 
excitement; “ I want to speak to Lucy.” 

He had never spoken of her as Lucy before, he had never thought 
of suggesting that Jock; should run and play. The child, though 
startled and indignant, yielded to the emergency which was un- 
mistakable in his instructor’s face. He looked at St. Clair for a 
moment, angry, then yielding to the necessity. And Lucy, whose 
interest in her history-book w T as never of an absorbing description, 
hearing the pause, the whisper, the little rustle of movement. 


308 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 


iooked up too. She saw with some astonishment that Jock was 
leaving the room. 

“ Have you got through your lessons already?” she cried. 

St. Clair made the child an imperative sign, and got up and ap- 
proached Lucy. 

“ I have sent him away,” he said* and then stbOd for a moment 
looking down upon her. She, on her side, looked up with a sur- 
prised countenance. There could not have been a greater contrast 
than that which was apparent between them; he full of excitement, 
she perfectly calm, though surprised, wondering what it was he was 
about to say to her, and what his restrained agitation could mean. 
“ I sent him away,” said St. Clair, “ because I wanted to say some- 
thing to you, Miss Trevor; I could not delay it any longer. It has 
been almost more than I could do to keep silence so long.” 

“What is it?” she said. She was gently anxious, concerned 
about him, wondering if he was going to relieve her of her difficulty 
by confessing his wants, and putting it into her power to help him. 
It did not occur to Lucy that a man would be very unlikely to 
confide troubles about money to a girl. The distribution of her 
money occupied her own mind so much that it seemed, on the con- 
trary, a likely matter to her that others should be so preoccupied 
too. 

“ I have something to say to you,” he repeated; but the look of 
her mild blue eyes steadfastly directed toward him made what he 
had to say a great deal more difficult to St. Clair. A chill doubt 
penetrated into his mind; he hesitated. The least little uncertainty 
on her part, a blush, a shade of trouble, would have made every- 
thing easier to him; but Lucy was not excited. She “ did seriously 
incline ” to hear whatever he might have to say, but her eyes did 
not even veil their mild light, nor ner cheek own the shadow of a 
flush. To discharge a declaration of love point-blank at a young 
woman who is gazing at you in perfect composure and case, with- 
out a shade of expectation in her countenance, is no easy matter. 
Besides, the fact of her composure was, of all things in the world, 
the most discouraging to her suitor; and it was what he had not 
anticipated. It came upon him as a revelation of the most chilling 
and discouraging kind. “Now that the moment has come, ” said 
St. Clair, “ all the unkind judgments 1 may be exposing myself to 
seem to rise up before me. I never thought of them till now. 
The sincerity of my feelings was my defense. Now I feel over- 
whelmed by them. Miss Trevor— Lucy! I feel now that I have 
been a fool. What I wanted to say is what I ought not to say.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND;. 309 


He covered his face with his hands, and turned' away from her*. 
Lucy was much concerned. This little pantomime, which, however, 
was the sincerest part of all St. Clair’s proceedings, took away her 
indifference at once. Her composed countenance was disturbed, a 
little color came to her face. 

“ Oh, tell me what it is,” she cried. 

When he looked at her, there was an air almost of entreaty on 
Lucy’s face. She repeated her petition, “Tell me what it is,” 
looking anxiously up to him. His heart beat very loudly. To 

“ . . . put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all.” 

is not so easily done in reality as in verse. He drew a long, almost 
sobbing, breath. He dropped down suddenly on one knee, close to 
her. This was not any expedient of humility or devotion, but 
merely to bring himself on a level with her, and as such Lucy, 
understood it, though she was surprised. 

“ Lucy!” he said (and this startled her still more), “ Lucy! don’t 
you know what it is? can not you guess? haven’t you seen it al- 
ready in every look of my face, in every tone of my voice? Ah, 
yes, 1 ant sure you know it. I am not a good dissembler, and what 
else could have kept me here? Lucy! I am not good enough for 
you, but such as I am, will you have me?” he cried. 

"‘Have you, Mr. St. Clair!” Lucy stammered out in consterna- 
tion. She understood him vaguely, and yet she did not understand 
him. Have him! not give to him, but take from him. He had put 
it skillfully, without, however, being aware that he was doing so,, 
excitement taking the place of calculation, as it often does. He 
held out his hands for hers, he looked at her with eyes full of en- 
treaty, beseeching, imploring. There was nothing fictitious in their 
eloquence. He meant as sincerely as ever lover meant, and the 
yes or no was to him, as in the case of the most impassioned wooer, 
like life or death. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ have me! I am not much of a man, but with 
you I should be another creature. You would give me what I 
have always wanted, an inspiration, a motive. Since the first 
time I saw you, my happiness has been in your hands; for what 
else do you think I have been staying here? I have not done all I 
might have done, but, Lucy, if love had not held me, do you think 
I am good for nothing but to be tutor to a child? I have served for 
love, like Jacob, for you.” 

Lucy gave a low cry at this. She put her hands, not into his, 
but together, wringing them with sudden pain. 


310 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“Oh,” she said, “why did not you tell me before? Oh, Mr. 

St. Clair, w T hy did I not know?” 

“ Do you think I grudge it?” he said, “ not if it had been as long 
as Jacob’s. Do you think I regret having done this for you? not if 
it had been a life-time; but Lucy, you are too good to keep me in 
suspense, you will give me my reward at the end?” 

And this time he took her clasped hands into his, drawing her to 
him. Lucy’s courage had failed for a moment. Confusion and 
trouble and distress had taken away all the strength from her. 
There was a mist over her eyes, and her voice seemed to die away 
in her throat; but at his touch her girlish shyness came to her aid. 
A flush of shrinking and shame came over her. She drew away 
from him with an instinctive recoil. 

“Mr. St. Clair, I don’t know what you want from me. I am 
very grateful to you about Jock. I thought it was a great favor; 
but I did not know — oh, I am very sony, very sorry that you should 
have done anything that was not good enough for me. ’ ’ 

“I am not sorry,” he said; his heart began to sink, but he 
looked more lover-like, more eager than ever. “ You do not know 
how sweet it is to serve those one loves. Do you remember what 
Browning says about Dante’s angel and Raphael's sonnet?” He 
was a man of culture himself, and he did not reflect that Dante, and 
Raphael, and Browning were all alike out of Lucy’s way, who 
stared at him with growing horror, as he pleaded, feeling that he 
must be citing spectators of his sacrifices for her, who would blame 
her, and say she used him badly. ‘ ‘ This is my sonnet and my pict- 
ure,” he added; “ ‘ Once, and only once, and for one only.’ Lucy! 
believe me, I should never have said anything about it, save to 
prove my dear love. ’ ’ 

Blanched with pain and terror, her mild eyes opened widely, her 
breath coming quick, Lucy looked at him kneeling by her side, 
and held herself away, leaning to the other hand to avoid the almost 
unat oidable contact. She kept her eyes fixed upon him to keep 
watch more than anything else, upon what he w r ould do next. 

He saw that his cause was lost. There was neither love nor 
gratitude for love in the stare of her troubled eyes; but he would 
not give in without another effort. He said, softly sinking his 
voice, “ You ask what I want from you, Lucy? Alas! I thought 
you would have divined without asking. Your love, dear, in re- 
turn for mine, which I have given you. What I want is nothing 
less than your love — and yourself. ’ ’ 

Again he put out his hands to take hers. To think that this 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 311 

should be all the mere fancy of a little girl, all that stood between 
him and bliss, not perhaps the usual kind of lover’s bliss, yet hap- 
piness, rapture. Impatience seized him, which he could scarcely 
restrain. Such a trifling obstacle as this, no obstacle at all, for it 
was clear she could not know what was for her own advantage, 
what would make her happy. Then came an impalient inclination 
upon him to capture her by his bow and spear, to seize upon her 
simply and carry her off, and compel her to see what was for her 
own advantage. But alas! the rules of conventional life were too 
many for St. Clair. Though this he felt would have been the 
natural and the sensible way of proceeding, he could not adopt it. 
He had still to kneel by her side and do his best to persuade her. 
He could not force her to do even what was so evidently for her 
good. 

The extremity of her need brought back Lucy's courage. She 
felt herself driven to bay, and it was evident that he must have no 
doubt as to the answer she gave. She looked at him as steadily as 
her trembling would permit, a deep flush came over her face, her 
lips quivered. 

“ Do you mean that you want to — marry me, Mr. St. Clair?” she 
said. 

St. Clair felt that the moment was supreme. He threw all the 
passionate entreaty which was possible (and his passion was real 
enough) into his look, and gathering her hands into both his, kissed 
them again and again. 

“What else?” he said, in a whisper, ^which must have thrilled 
through and through a heart in which there was any response. But 
in Lucy’s there was no response. She stumbled to her feet with an 
effort, getting her hands free, and leaving her discomfited suitor 
kneeling by the side of her empty chair in ludicrous confusion. He 
had, indeed, to grasp hold of the chair, or the sudden energy of her 
movement would have disturbed his balance too. 

“ That is impossible, impossible!” Lucy cried, her cheeks burn- 
ing, her mild eyes glowing; “ you must never speak of it again, 
you must never mention it to me more. I could not,” she added, 
feeling in his look that all was not settled, even by this vehement 
negative, “I could not, I could never marry you; and I do not 
want to be married at all.” 

“ Not now, perhaps, but some time you will,” he said. He had 
risen from his knee, and stood opposite to her, banishing as best he 
could his confusion from his face, “Not now; I have been rash, 


312 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


I have frightened you with an avowal which I ought not to have 
made so soon; but Lucy, dearest, the time will come.” 

“ Not now, or ever!” she cried; “ oh, Mr. St. Clair, believe me! 
don’t let it be all to go over another time; neither now nor ever. 
I may be frightened, I never thought of anything .ike this before; 
but now you have made me think of it, I know — that is impossible, 
it could never, never be!” 

“ You are very sure of yourself,” he said, with a little involun- 
tary bitterness; for it is not pleasant to be rejected, even when you 
l think it is the dictate of fright, and St. Clair did not think so, but 
only pretended so to think. 

“ Yes, I am very, very sure. Oh, indeed, I am sure. Anything, 
anything else! If I could help you to get on, if I could be of any 
use. Anything else; but that can nev?r be!” said Lucy, with tre- 
mendous firmness. He looked at her with cynical scorn in his eyes. 

“ I will never thrust anything upon a lady against her will,” he 
said, “ even to save her from the blood-hounds; one can not do 
that, but the time will come — I know very, well the time will come.” 
He was as much agitated as if indeed he had loved Lucy to despera- 
tion. He went to the table and collected his books with a tremen- 
dous vehemence. “ I must now wish you good-morning, Miss Tre- 
vor,” he said. 

And it was with a troubled heart that Lucy saw him go. What 
could she have done otherwise? She could not bear that any one 
should leave her thus. She longed to be able to offer him — anything 
that would salve his wound. If he would only take some of the 
money! if he would only accept her help, since she could not give 
him herself. She looked after him with her heart wrung, and tears 
in her piteous eyes. 


CHAPTER XXXVin. 

ONE DOWN, AND ANOTHER COME ON. 

This was Lucy’s first experience of love-making. It is needless 
to say that it was very far from being her last; but for the moment 
it was an appalling revelation to her, an incident of the most dis- 
turbing and disquieting kind. She was alone for a long time after 
St. Clair’s withdrawal. It w T as the morning, the time wdien Mrs. 
Ford was occupied with household concerns, and Jock, being freed 
sooner than usual, had betaken himself to one of his habitual cor- 
ners with a book, and was thousands of mental miles away fronx 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


313 


his sister. She remained alone in that pink drawing-room, in 
which already she had spent so many lonely hours. There she 
stood hidden behind the curtains, and watched St. Clair speeding 
across the road that skirted the common to the White House. She 
had seen him coming and going a great many times with placid in- 
difference. But she could not be indifferent to anything about 
him now. His hasty pace, so unlike the usual stateliness of de- 
meanor in which he resembled his aunt, the books under his arm, 
his stumble as he rushed over the rough ground, all went to Lucy’s 
heart. She was not sorry that she had given forth so determined a 
decision. That she felt at once, with her usual good sense, was 
unavoidable. It was not a question upon which any doubt could 
be left. But she was very sorry to have given him pain, very sorry 
that it had been necessary. She felt pained and angry that such 
an appeal should have been made to her, yet at the same time self- 
reproachful and sore, wondering how it was her fault, and what she 
could have done. It dismayed her to think tJtiat she had voluntarily 
and deliberately inflicted pain, and yet what alternative had been 
left her? Now, she thought to herself sadly, here was an end of 
all possibility of helping a man who was poor, and whom she 
would have been so glad to help. He would not take anything from 
her now, he would be angry, he would reject her aid, although so 
willingly given. This gave Lucy a real pang. She could not get 
it out of her mind. How foolish, she moralized, to put off a real 
duty like this, to let it become impossible! She was sitting ponder- 
ing very sadly upon the whole matter, asking herself wistfully if 
anything could be done, when Mrs. Rushton came in. full of the 
plan which Raymond had proposed the evening before. Mrs. Rush- 
ton was always elated by a new proposal of pleasure-making. It 
raised her spirits even when nothing else was involved. But in 
this case there was a great deal more involved. 

“It is the very thing to finish the season,” she said; “ we have 
had a very pleasant season, especially since you came back, Lucy. 
You have made us enjoy it twice as much as we usually do. For 
one thing, home has been so much more attractive than usual to 
Ray. Oh, he is always very good, he does not neglect his own 
people; still young men will be young men, and you know even 
Shakespeare talks of ‘ metal more attractive ’ than a mother. So as 
I was saying — Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Ford?” 

As usual, Mrs. Ford made her appearance, sweeping in her pur- 
ple silk, which was of a very brilliant and hot hue, and put every 
other color out. Her punctual attendance, when ladies came to 


314 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


see Lucy, served her purpose very well, for it made it apparent to 
these ladies that Lucy’s present hostess was a very dragon of jeal- 
ous carefulness, and was likely to guard the golden apples against 
all comers as she did from them. 

“ How do you do?” said Mrs. Ford, stiffly, taking a stiff and high 
backed chair. 

'‘It is a very fine day,” said Mrs. Rushton; “what pleasant 
weather we are having for this time of the yearl I was remarking 
to Lucy that it had been the most enjoyable summer. I always 
say that for young people there is nothing so enjoyable as out-door 
parties when the weather is good. They get air and they get exer- 
cise, far better than being cooped up in stuffy ball-rooms. I feel 
quite thankful to Lucy, who has been the occasion of so many nice 
friendly meetings.” 

“She has had a deal too much of gayety, I think,” said Mrs. 
Ford, “ considering that her poor dear father has not been much 
more than six months in his grave.” 

“You can not really call it gayety, oh, no, not gayety! a few 
nice quiet afternoons on the lawn, and just one or two picnics. 
No, Lucy dear, you need not be frightened; I w T iil never suffer you 
to do anything inconsistent with your mourning. You may rely on 
me. If anything, I am too particular on that point. Your nice 
black frocks, ” said Mrs. Rushton, with fervor, “have never been 
out of character with anything. I have taken the greatest care of 
that.” 

“I don’t say anything about the afternoons, ” said Mrs. Ford, 
“ but I know that it was half -past ten when your carriage came to 
the door last night with Lucy in it. I don’t hold wilh such late 
hours. Ford and me like to be in bed at ten o’clock.” 

“ Ah, that is very early,” Mrs. Rushton said, with an indulgent 
smile; “ say eleven, and I will take care that Lucy has some one 
with her to see her safe home. ” 

“ Oh, for that matter, there’s always plenty with her,” said the 
grumbler, “ and more than I approve of. I don’t know what girls 
want with all that running about. We never thought of it in our 
day. Home was our sphere, and there we stayed, and never asked if 
it was dull or not.” 

“ That is very true; and it was very dull. We don’t bring up 
our children like that nowadays,” said Mrs. Rushton, with that 
ironical superiority which the mother of a family always feels her- 
self justified in displaying to a childless contemporary. Mrs. Ford 
had no children to get the advantage of the new rule. “And,” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EUGLAHD. 


315 


she added, “ one feels for a dear child like Lucy, who has no 
mother, that one is doubly bound to do one’s best for her. How 
poor dear Mrs. Trevor would have watched over her had she been 
spared! a motherless girl has a thousand claims. And, Lucy,” 
continued her indulgent friend, “ this is Ray’s party. It is he that 
is to manage it all; he took it into his head that you would like to 
see the Abbey again.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “surprised that they should show so 
much thought for her, but quite ready to be pleased and grateful 
too. 

“ He and his sister will come and fetch you at two o’clock,” she 
continued; it will be quite 1 urriealy got up, what I call an im- 
promptu — but all the better for that. There will be just our own 
set. Mrs. Stone of course it would be useless to ask, now that 
school has begun again; but if there is any friend whom you would 
like to have — ” 

It was as if in direct answer to this half-question that at that mo- 
ment the door opened anti Katie Russell, all smiles and pleasure, 
came in. “ Lucy,” she cried,” Bertie has come, as I told you; he 
wants so much to see you; may I bring him in? Oh, I beg your 
pardon, Mi's. Ford, I did not see that you were here.” 

“ Don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Ford, grimly; “ most folks do the 
same.” 

“Is it your brother, the author?” said Mrs. Rushton, excited. 
She was so far out of the world, and so little acquainted with its 
ways, that she felt, and thought it the right thing to show that she 
felt, an interest in a real living novelist. “ Lucy, we must have him 
come to the picnic, ’ ’ she cried. 

But she wa 3 not so enthusiastic when Bertie appeared. His suc- 
cess had made a great difference in Bertie’s outward man; he was 
no longer the slipshod youth of Hampstead, by turns humble and 
arrogant, full of boyish assurance and equally boyish timidity. 
Even in that condition he had been a handsome young fellow, with 
an air of breeding which must have come from some remote ances- 
tor, as there was no nearer way by which he could have acquired 
it. When he walked into the room now, it was as if a young prince 
had suddenly appeared among these commonplace people. It was 
not his dress, Mrs. Rushton soon decided, for Raymond was as well 
dressed as he— nor was it his good looks, though it was not possible 
to deny them; it was— more galling still —something which was 
neither dress nor looks, but which he had, and, alas! Raymond 


316 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


had not. Mrs. Rushton gazed at him open-eyed, while he came in 
smiling and gracious, shaking hands with cordial grace. 

“It is not my own boldness that brings me,’’ he said, “but 
Katie’s. I am shifting the responsibility off my own shoulders on to 
hers, as you ladies say we all do; but for Katie’s encouragement, I 
don’t know if I would have ventured.’ 

“ I am very glad to see you,” Lucy said; and then they all seated 
themselves, the central interest of the group shifting at once to the 
new-comer, the young man of genius, the popular author. He was 
quite sensible of the duties of his position, treated the ladies round 
him en bon prince with a suitable condescension to each and to all. 

“ I have a hundred things to say to you from my mother,” he 
said; “she wishes often that you could see her in her new house, 
where she is very comfortable. She thinks you would be pleased 
with it. ’ ’ This was said with a glance of confidential meaning, 
which showed Lucy that, though Katie was not aware of it, her 
brother knew and acknowledged the source from which his mother’s 
comfort came. ‘ ‘ And it is very kind of you to admit us at this un- 
timely hour,” he said to Mrs. Ford, looking at her purple silk with 
respect as if it had been the most natural morning-dress in the world. 
“ Katie is still only a school-girl, and is guided by an inscrutable 
system. I stand aghast at her audacity; but I am very glad to profit 
by it." 

“ Oh, as for audacity,” said Mrs. Ford, “ that is neither here nor 
there, we are well used to it; but whenever you like to come, Mr, 
Russell, you’ll find a welcome, I knew your good father well, and 
a better man never was — ” 

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Rushton, eager to introduce berself, “I 
must be allowed to say so too. I knew Mr. Russell very w^ell, 
though I never had the pleasure of making acquaintance with his 
family. I am afraid, after the society you must have been seeing, 
you will find Farafield a very benighted sort of place. There is 
nothing that can be called society here.” 

“ That is so much the better,” said Bertie graciously; “ one lias 
plenty of it in the season, it is a relief to be let alone: and my ob- 
ject in cpming here is not society.” 

“ Oh, I told you, Lucy, ” cried his sister, “ he has come to study.” 

A frown crossed Bertie’s face; he gave her a w’arning look. “ I 
want rest,” he said; “there is nothing like lying fallow. It does 
pne all the good in the world. ” 

Ahl” cried Mrs. Rushton, “ I know what that means. You 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 317 

have come to take us all off, Mr. Russell; we will all he put into 
your new hook.” 

Bertie smiled a languid and indulgent smile. “ If I could suppose 
that there were any eccentricities to be found in your circle, ” he 
said, “ perhaps — but good breeding is alike over all the world.” 

Mrs. Rushton did not quite known what this meant; but it was 
either a compliment or something that sounded like one. She was 
delighted with this elegant young man of genius, who was so 
familiar with and indifferent to society. ” If you will come to the 
little picnic I am planning for to-morrow, you shall judge for your- 
self,” she said; ” and perhaps Mrs. Stone will let your sister come 
too,” she added, with less cordiality. Katie, whom every one knew 
to be only a governess-pupil, had not attracted her attention much. 
She had been accepted with toleration now and then as Lucy’s 
friend, but as the sister of a young literary lion, who no doubt knew 
all kinds of fine people, Katie became of more importance. Bertie 
took the invitation with great composure, though his sister, who 
was not blasee, looked up with sparkling eyes. 

“ To-morrow?” he said; ” I am Katie’s slave and at her disposal. 

I will come with pleasure if my sister will let me come.” 

Was it wise? Mrs. Rushton asked herself, with a little shiver. 
She made a mental comparison between this new-comer and Ray. 
The proverbial blindness of love is not to be trusted in, in such 
emergencies. His mother saw, with great distinctness, that Ray- 
mond had not that air, thatje ne sais quoi ; nor could he talk about 
society, nor had he the easy superiority, the conscious genius of 
Bertie. But then the want of these more splendid qualities put him 
more on Lucy’s level. Lucy (thank Heaven!) was not clever. She 
would not understand the other’s gifts; and Ray was a little, just a 
little taller, his hair curled, which Bertie’s did not; Mrs. Rushton 
thought that, probably, the author would be open to adulation, and 
would like to be worshiped by the more important members of the 
community. What coul3 he care for a bit of a girl? So, on the 
whole, she felt herself justified in her invitation. She offered the 
brother and sister seats in the break, in which she herself and the 
greater part of her guests were to drive to the Abbey, and she made 
herself responsible for the consent of Mrs. Stone. ” Of course I 
shall ask Mr. St. Clair, Lucy,” she said. ‘‘I always like to ask 
him, poor fellow! he must be so dull with nothing but ladies from 
morning till night.” 

“ Happy man,” Bertie said; “ what could he desire more?” 

“ But when those ladies are aunts, Mr. Russell?” 


318 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

“ That alters the question. Though there is something to be said 
for other people’s aunts,” said Bertie, “lam not one of those who 
think all that is pleasant is summed up in youth.” 

“ Oh, you must not tell me that. You all like youth best,” said 
Mrs. Rushton; but she was pleased. She felt her own previsions 
justified. A young man like this, highly cultivated and accustomed 
to good society, what could he see in a little bread-and-butter sort 
of a girl like Lucy? She gave Bertie credit for a really elevated 
tone. She was not so worldly-minded as she supposed herself to be, 
for she did not take it for granted that everbody else was as worldly- 
minded as herself. 

This succession of visitors and events drove the adventure of the 
morning out of Lucy’s head. And when she went out with Jock in 
the afternoon, Bertie met them in the most natural way in the 
world, and prevented any relapse of her thoughts. He told her he 
was “studying” Farafield, which filled Lucy with awe; and 
begged her to show him what was most remarkable in the place. 
This was a great puzzle to the girl, who took him into the market- 
place, and through the High Street, quite unconscious of the scru- 
tiny of the beholders. “ I don’t think there is anything that is re- 
markable in Farafield,” she said, while Bertie, smiling — thinking 
involuntarily that he himself, walking up and down the homely 
streets, with an artist’s eye alive to all the picturesque comers, was 
enough lo give dignity to the quiet little country place — walked by 
her side, very slim and straight, the most gentleman-like figure. 
There were many people who looked with curiosity, and some with 
envy, upon this pair, the women thinking that only her money could 
have brought so aristocratic a companion to the side of old John 
Trevor’s daughter, while the men concluded that he was some needy 
“ swell,” who was after the girl, and thus exhibited himself in at- 
tendance upon her. It came to Mrs. Rushton’s ears that they had 
been seen together, and the information startled her much; but 
what could she do? She fell upon Raymond, reproaching him for 
his shilly-shally. “ Now you see there is no time to be lost; now 
you see that other people have their wits about them,” she said; 
“ if you let to-morrow slip, there will be nothing too bad for you,” 
cried the exasperated mother. But Raymond, though he was more 
frightened than could be told in words, had no thought of letting 
to-morrow slip. He too felt that things were coming to a crisis. 
He stood at the window with his hands in his pockets and whis- 
tled, as it were, under his breath. He was terribly frightened; but 
still he felt that what was to be done must be done, if anything was 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


319 


to be done. So long as it was only St. Clair, whom he thought 
middle-aged, and who was certainly fat, who was against him, he 
had not been much troubled; but this new fellow was a different 
matter. He did not put his resolution into such graceful words, but 
he too felt that it was time to 

“ . . . put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all,” 

As for Lucy, no thought of the further trials awaiting her entered 
her mind; but she was not happy. It had ceased to be possible to 
take those evening strolls which had brought her into such intimate 
relations with the inmates of the White House. They had been 
given up since the girls came back; and, indeed, the days were so 
much shorter that they had become impracticable. But when she 
came upstairs to her lonely drawing-room after tea, when it was 
not yet completely dark, she could not choose but to go to the win- 
dow, and look out upon the dim breadth of the common, and the 
lights which began to twinkle in Mrs. Stone's windows. The grassy 
breadths of broken ground, the brown furze-bushes, all stubbly 
with the husks of the seed-pots, the gleam of moisture here and 
there, the keener touch of color in the straggling foliage of the 
hedges, and here and there a half-grown tree were dim under a veil 
of mist when she looked out. The last redness of the sun was melt- 
ing from the sky. A certain autumnal sadness was in the bit of 
homely landscape, which, though she was not imaginative, de- 
pressed Lucy as she stood at the window. She was altogether de- 
pressed and discouraged. Mrs. Ford had been, if not scolding, yet 
talking uncomfortably to her husband across the girl, of the rude- 
ness of Lucy’s friends. “ Not that I would go to their parties if 
they begged me on their knees,” Mrs. Ford had said, “ but the un- 
politeness of it! And to ask those Russells before my very face, 
who are not a drop’s blood to Lucy.” “ Well, well, my dear, 
never mind,” her husband had said, “when she’s married there 
will be an end of it.” “ Married!” Mrs. Ford had said in high dis- 
dain. And then Lucy had got up and hastened away, wounded 
and shocked and unhappy, though she scarcely could tell why. 
She came and stood at the window, and looked out, with the tears 
in her eyes. Everybody had been very kind to her, but yet she was 
very lonely. She had a gay party to look forward to the next day, 
and she believed she would enjoy it; but yet Lucy was lonely. 
Peopie seemed to struggle over her incoherently, for she knew not 
what reason, each trying to push the other away, each trying to 


320 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


persuade her that the other entertained some evil motive; and every- 
thing seemed to concur in making it impossible for her to carry out 
her father’s will. And there was nobody to advise, nobody to help 
her. Philip, to whom she would so gladly have had recourse, was 
cross and sullen, and scolded her for no reason at all, instead of 
being kind. And Sir Tom, who was really kind, whom she could 
really trust to — what had become of him? Had he forgotten her 
altogether? He had not written to her, and Lucy had not the cour- 
age to write to him. What could she do to get wisdom, to know 
how to deal with the difficulties around her? She was standing 
within the curtains of the window, looking out wistfully toward 
the White House, and wondering how Mr. St. Clair would speak to 
her to-morrow, and if Mrs. Stone would know and be angry, when 
she was startled by the sound of wheels, and saw a carriage — nay, 
not a carriage but something more ominous, tne fly of the neigh- 
borhood, the well known vehicle which took all the people about 
the common to the railway, and was as familiar as the common 
itself. It rattled along to the White House, making twice the noise 
that any other carriage ever made. Could they be going to a party? 
Lucy asked herself with alarm. But it was no party. There was 
just light enough left to show that luggage was brought out. Then 
came the glimmer of the lantern dangling at the finger end of the 
gardener — that lantern by which, on winter nights, Lucy herself 
had been so often lighted home. Then she perceived various figures 
about the door, and Mrs. Stone coming out with a whiteness about 
her head which betrayed the shawl thrown over her cap; evidently 
some one was going away. Who could be going away? 

After awhile the fly lumbered off from the door, leaving that 
gleam of light behind, and some one looking out, looking after the 
person departing. Lucy’s heart beat ever quicker and quicker. 
As the fly approached the lamp-post that gave light to the Terrace, 
she saw that it w T as a portmanteau and other masculine belongings 
that were on the top, and to make assurance sure a man’s head 
glanced out and looked up at her window. Lucy sunk down into 
a chair and cried. It was her doing. She had driven St. Clair 
away, out into the hard world, with his heart-disease and his pov- 
erty— she who had been brought into being and made rich, for no 
other end than to help those who were poorl 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


321 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE PICNIC. 

Lucy spent a most melancholy night. It was dreadful to her to 
think that she had been not only “ no good,” but the doer of harm. 
She imagined to herself poor St. Clair, with that weakness which 
prevented him from realizing the hopes of his friends, going away 
from the shelter and comfort his aunt had provided for him and the 
rest of this quiet place, and struggling again among others each 
more able to fight their way than he — and all because of her, who 
should have smoothed his way for him, who had the means to pro- 
vide for him, to make everything easy. It is impossibe to describe 
the compunctions that filled Lucy’s inexperienced heart. It seemed 
all her fault, his departure, and even his incomprehensible proposal 
—for how could he ever have thought of such a thing himself, he a 
gentleman, and she only a girl, at school the other day — and all the 
disappointment and grief which must have been caused by his 
going away, all her doing! though she had meant everything that 
was kind, instead of this trouble. When she saw Jock preparing 
for his lessons, her distress overpowered her altogether. “I am 
afraid Mr. St. Clair is not coming,” she said, faltering, at break- 
fast; “ I think he has gone away,” feeling herself almost ready to 
cry. 44 Gone away!” said the Fords, in a breath; and they ex- 
changed looks which Lucy felt to be triumphant. And a good rid- 
dance too,” cried Mrs. Ford, “ a fellow not worth a penny, and 
giving himself airs as if he had hundreds in his pocket.” 44 My 
dear,” her husband said, 44 perhaps you are too severe. I think 
sometimes you are too severe; but I can’t say I think him much of 
a loss, Lucy, if you will take my opinion.” Lucy was not much 
comforted by this deliverance, and after hearing a full discussion of 
Mrs. Stone and her belongings, was less consoled than ever. If they 
were poor so much the more dismal for him to fail. Lucy could 
not settle to her own work, she could not resume her own tasks so 
dutifully undertaken, but in which she felt so little interest. It was 
easy for Jock to dispose of himself on the great white hearth-rug 
with his book. She could not help saying this as the sound of the 
leaves he turned caught her ears. 44 It does not matter for you,” 
she said, “ you are only a small boy, you never think about any- 
thing, or wonder and wonder what people are going to do. ’ ’ Jock 


322 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


raised his head from the book, and looked at her with his big eyes. 
He had been conscious of her restlessness all along, though he was 
reading the 44 Heroes, 4 ’ which St. Clair had given him. Her little un- 
comfortable rustle of movement, her frequent gazings from the win- 
dow, the under- current of anxiety and uncertain resolution in the 
air, had disturbed Jock in spite of himself. He lay and watched 
her now with his head raised. “I wish,” said Jock, “we could 
get Here or somebody to come.” But Lucy was more insulted than 
helped by this speech. “ What is the use of trying to speak to you 
about things?” she cried exasperated, “ when you know we are real 
living creatures, and not people in a book!” And Lucy in her dis- 
tress cried, which she was not in the habit of doing. Jock raised 
himself then to his elbow, and looked at her with great interest and 
sympathy. 4 4 Here can’t come to us,” he said seriously, 4 ; but she 
was just a lady, only bigger than you are. Couldn’t you just go 
yourself?” 

44 Jock, do you think I should go?” the girl cried. It was like 
consulting an oracle, and that is what all primitive people like 
to do. 

44 Yes,” said the little boy, dropping down again satisfied upon 
his fleecy rug. How could he know anything about it? but Lucy 
took no time to think. She hastened to her room and put on her 
hat, and was hurrying along the road to the White House, before 
she had thought what to say when she got there. It was just twelve 
o’clock, a moment at which Mrs. Stone was always to be found in 
her parlor, resting for half an hour in the middle of her labors. 
Lucy found herself tapping at the parlor-door in the fervor of her 
first resolution. She went in with eyes full of tearful light. Mrs. 
Stone and Miss Southwood were both in the room. They turned 
round with great surprise at the sight of her. 

44 How do you do, Lucy?” Mrs. Stone said, very coldly, not even 
putting out her hand. 

44 Oh,” cried Lucy, full of her generous impulse. 44 Why has Mr. 
St. Clair gone away?” 

44 1 told you,” said Miss Southwood. 44 1 told you! the girl 
doesn’t know her own mind.” 

Mrs. Stone caught her this time by both hands. “Lucy,” she 
cried, “don’t trifle or be a little fool. If this is what you mean, 
Frank will come back. You may be sure he did not want to go 
away.” 

Lucy felt the soft hands which took hold of her grip like fingers 
of iron, and felt herself grappled with an eager force she could 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAND. 


323 


scarcely withstand. They came round her with anxious faces, 
seizing hold upon her. For a moment she almost gasped for breath, 
half suffocated by the closing in around her of this trap into which 
she had betrayed herself. But the emergency brought back her 
strength and self-command. “ It is not that,” she said, with poign- 
ant distress and shame, though she had no reason to be ashamed. 
“ Oh, forgive me, it is not that!” 

Mrs. Stone dropped her hands as if they had been hot coals, and 
turned away. “ This is a moment when I prefer to be alone, Miss 
Trevor,” she said, as she was in the habit of saying to the girls who 
disturbed her retirement; “ if there is anything in which I can serve 
you, pray say so without any loss of time. I reserve this half hour 
in the day to myself.” 

Thus chilled after the red heat of excitement into which she had 
been raised, Lucy stood trembling, scarcely knowing what to say. 

“I beg your pardon,” she faltered at last; “ I came because I 
was so unhappy about — Mr. St. Clair.” 

“ Lucy, what do you mean?” cried Miss Southwood. “Don’t 
frighten the child, Maria! what do you mean? You drive him 
away, and then you come and teli us you are unhappy. What do 
you intend us to understand?” 

“ I wanted to come to you before,” said Lucy, with great humil 
ity, looking at Mrs. Stone, who had turned away from her “ Please 
listen to me for one moment. You said he was not strong, not able 
to do all he wished. Mrs. Stone, I have a great deal of money left 
me by papa to be given away.” 

Mrs. Stone started to her feet with sudden passion. “ Do you 
mean to offer him money?” she cried. 

This time Lucy did not falter, she confronted even the tremendous 
authority of Mrs. Stone with a steady though tremulous front, and 
said, “Yes,” very quietly and distinctly, though in a voice that 
showed emotion. Her old instructress turned on her commanding 
and imposing, but Lucy did not quail, not even when Mrs. Stone 
repeated the words, “ to offer him money!” in a kind of scream of 
dismay. 

“Maria, let us hear what she means; we don’t know what she 
means; Lucy, tell it all to me. She can not bear Frank to go away. 
Let me hear what you mean, Lucy, let me hear.” 

It was Miss Southwood who said this, putting herself between 
Lucy and her sister. Miss Southwood was not imposing, her anxious 
little face conciliated and calmed the girl. How comfortable it is, 


324 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN’ EHGLAHD. 


how useful to have a partner, or a brother, or sister, entirely unlike 
yourself! It is as good as being two persons at once. 

" Miss South wood, papa left me a great deal of money — ” 

At this the listener nodded her head a great many times with a 
look of pleased assent; then shook it gently and said, “ But you 
should not think too much of your money, Lucy, my dear.” 

“ To give away,” said Lucy, hastily; “ he left me this duty above 
all, to give away to those who needed it. There is a great deal of 
money, enough for a number of people.” 

“Oh!” Miss South wood cried out, in a voice which ran up a 
whole gamut of emotion. She put out her two hands, groping as if 
she had suddenly become blind. Consternation seized her. “Then 
you are not — ’ ’ she said. ' ‘ Maria, she can not be such a great heir- 
ess after all!” 

Mrs. Stone’s astonished countenance was slowly turned upon 
Lucy from over her sister’s shoulder. She gazed at the girl with an 
amazement which struck her dumb. Then she said with an effort, 
“You meant to offer some of this — charitable fund — to my 
nephew — ” 

“It is not a charitable fund — it is not charity at all. It was to 
be given in sums which would make the people independent. Why 
should you think worse of me than 1 deserve?” cried Lucy; “ it is 
not my fault. I did not want him to say — that — I wanted to help 
him — to offer him — what papa left.” 

Here Mrs. Stone burst out furious. 4 * To offer him — my nephew 
—a man; and you a little chit of a girl, a nobody— help as you call 
it — alms! charity!” 

“ Maria— Maria!” said Miss Southwood. “ Stop, I tell you. It 
is all nonsense about alms and charity. Good honest money is not 
a thing to be turned away from any one’s door. Lucy, my dear, 
speak to me. Enough to make people independent! Old Mr. 
Trevor w T as a wonderfully sensible old man. How much might 
that be? You have no right to spoil the boy’s chance. Oh, hold 
your tongue, Maria! Lucy, Lucy, my dear, do tell me." 

“ I never knew that was what he meant, Miss Southwood,” said 
Lucy, eagerly. “ How could I think that he— a Gentleman—” She 
used such a big capital for the word that it overbalanced Lucy’s 
eloquence. “ And I only a little chit of a girl,” she added, with a 
tremulous laugh, “ it is quite true. But there is this money, and I 
have to give it away. I have no choice. Papa said— And since 
he is not strong, and wants rest. Gentlemen want a great deal more 
money than women; but if it was only for a short time, till he got 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 325 

strong— perhaps,” said Lucy, faltering and hesitating, “ a few thou- 
sand pounds — might do?” 

The two ladies stood and stared at her confounded — they were 
struck dumb, both of them. Mrs. Stone’s commanding intellect 
stood her in as little stead as the good Southwood’s common sense, 
upon which she so prided herself. A few thousand pounds? 

“ And it would make me — so much more happy!” Lucy said. She 
put her hands together in the fervor of the moment entreating them; 
but they were both too entirely taken by surprise, too much over- 
•whelmed by wonder and confusion to speak. Only when Mrs. 
Stone moved, as if in act to speak, Miss Southwood burst forth in 
alarm. 

“Hold your tongue — hold your tongue,” she said, “Maria!” 
Never in all her life had she so ventured to speak to her dominant 
sister before. 

But when Lucy finally withdrew from this interview it was with 
a heart calmed and comforted. Mrs. Stone was still stupefied; but 
her sister had recovered her wits. “You see, Maria, this money is 
not hers. It is trust money; it is quite a different thing; and she is 
not such a great heiress after all. Dear Frank, after all, might have 
been throwing himself away,” was what Miss Southwood said. 
Lucy heard this, as it were, with a corner of her ear, for, at the 
same time, the bell began to ring at the White House; and it was 
echoed faintly by another at a distance which she alone understood. 
This was the bell for Mrs. Ford’s early dinner, and Lucy knew that 
the door had been opened at No. 6 in the Terrace, in order that she, 
if within hearing, might be summoned home. And that was not 
an appeal which she ventured to disobey. 

This morning’s adventure made Lucy’s heart much more light 
for her pleasure in the afternoon. When Raymond and Emmie 
rode up at two o’clock, he on the new horse which his father had 
permitted to be bought for this very cause, she sitting very clumsily 
on a clumsy pony, Lucy and Jock met them with nothing but smiles 
and brightness. It was not so bright as the day on which the ex- 
pedition had been planned. The autumn afternoon had more mist 
than mellow fruitfulness in it, and there was a cold wind about 
which shook the leaves in clouds from the trees. And Raymond, 
for his part, was nervous and uncomfortable. He had a deep and 
growing sense of what was before him. At a distance, such a piece 
of work is not so terrible as when seen close at hand. But when 
time has gone on with inexorable stride to the very verge of a mo- 
ment which nothing can delay, when the period has come beyond 


326 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


all possibility of escape, then it is not wonderful if the stoutest 
heart sinks. Raymond had got some advantages already by the 
mere prospect of this act to come. He had got a great many pleas- 
ant hours of leisure, escaping from the office, which he was not fond 
of; and he had got his horse, which was a very tangible benefit. 
And in the future what might he not hope for? Emancipation 
from the office altogether; a life of wealth and luxury; horses, as 
many as he could think of; hunting, shooting, everything that 
heart could desire; a “ place” in the country; a box somewhere in 
Scotland; a fine house in town (which moved him less), and the de- 
lightful certainty of being his own master. All these hung upon 
his power of pleasing Lucy — nothing more than pleasing a girl. 
Raymond could not but think with a little scorn of the strange in- 
congruity of mortal affairs which made all these happinesses hang 
upon the nod of a bit of a girl; but granting this, which he could 
not help granting, it was, he had frankly acknowledged, a much 
easier way of getting all the good things of life than that of labori- 
ously striving for them all his life long — to succeed, perhaps, only 
at the end, when he was no longer able to enjoy them. “ And you 
are fond of Lucy,” his mother said. Yes — this too the young man 
did not deny. He liked Lucy, he “did not mind” the idea of 
spending his life with her. She was very good-natured, and not 
bad-looking. He had seen girls he thought prettier; but she was 
not bad-looking, and always jolly, and not at all “ stuck up ” about 
her money; there was not a word to be said against her. And Ray- 
mond did not doubt that he would like it well enough were it done. 
But the doing of it! this was what alarmed him; for, after all, it 
must be allowed that, more or less, he was doing it in cold blood. 
And many things were against him on this special day. The wind 
was cold, and it was charged with dust, which blew into his eyes, 
making them red, and into his mouth, making him inarticulate. 
And Emmie clung to his side on one hand, and Jock on the other. 
He could not shake himself free of these two; when Lucy and he 
cantered forward, instead of jogging on discreetly, these two pests 
would push on after, Jock catching them up in no time, but Em- 
mie, after lumbering along with tolerable rapidity for thirty yards 
or so, taking fright and shrieking “Ray! Ray!” Raymond con- 
cluded, at last, with a sense of relief, that to say anything on the 
way there would be impossible. It was a short reprieve for him, 
and for the moment his spirits rose. He shook his head slightly 
when they met the party who had gone in the break, and when his 
mother’s anxious eye questioned him, “ No opportunity,” he whis- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


327 


pered as he passed her. The party in the break were covered with 
dust, and they had laid hold upon all the wraps possible to protect 
them from the cold. There was shelter in the wood, but still it was 
cold, and the party was much less gay than the previous one had 
been, though Mrs. Rushton herself did all that was possible to 
“ keep it up.” Perhaps the party itself was not so well selected as 
on that previous occasion. It was larger, which, of itself, was a 
mistake, and Bertie, who did not know the people, yet was too 
great a personage to be neglected, proved rather in Mrs. Rushton ’s 
way. He would stray after Lucy, interfering with Ray’s “ oppor- 
tunity,” and then would apologize meekly for his “ indiscretion,” 
with a keen eye for all that was going on. 

“ Oh, there is no indiscretion,” Mrs. Rushton said; “ but young 
people, you know, young people seeing a great deal of each other, 
they like to get together.” 

“ I see,” Bertie said, making a pretense of withdrawal; but from 
that moment never took his eyes off Lucy and her attendant. The 
sky was gray, the wind was cold, the yellow leaves came tumbling 
down upon their plates, as they eat their out-door meal. Now and 
then a shivering guest looked up, asking anxiously, “ Is that the 
rain?” They all spoke familiarly of “the rain” as of another 
guest expected; would it come before they had started on their re* 
turn? might it arrive even before the refection was over? They 
were all certain that they would not get home without being over- 
taken by it. And notwithstanding this alarmed expectation of “ the 
rain,’ the ham and the chickens were gritty with the dust which 
had blown into the hampers. It was very hard upon poor Mrs. 
Rushton, everybody said. 

“ Come up and look at the water-fall,” said Ray to Lucy. “ No, 
don’t say where we are going, or we shall have a troop after us. 
That fellow, that Russell, follows everywhere. Thank heaven he 
is looking the other way. He might know people don’t want him 
forever at their heels. Ah! this is pleasant, ” Ray said, with as 
good a semblance of enthusiasm as he could muster, when he had 
safely piloted Lucy into a narrow leafy path among the trees. But 
Lucy did not share his enthusiasm; she shivered a little as they 
plunged into the shadow, which shut out every gleam of the fitful 
sun. 

“ It Is a great pity It Is so cold,” Lucy said. 

“ A horrid pity, ” said Ray, with energy; but then he remem- 
bered his role , “ for you,” he said; “ as for me, I am very happy— I 


328 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


don’t mind the weather. I could go like this for miles, and never 
feel the want of the sun. ” 

44 I did not know you were so fond of the woods,” Lucy said. 

44 Nor is it the woods I am fond of,” said Ray, and his heart be- 
gan to thump. Now the moment had certainly come. “ It is the 
company I — love.” 

“ Hallo!” cried a voice behind. ‘‘I see some one in front of us 
— who is it? Rush ton. Then this must be the way.” 

“ Oh, confound you!” Ray said, between his teeth; and yet it was 
again a kind of reprieve. The leafy path was soon filled with a 
train of people, headed by Bertie, who made his way to Lucy’s side, 
when they reached the open space in which was the water-fall. 

“ Is not this a truly English pleasure?” Bertie said; 44 why should 
we all be making ourselves miserable eating cold victuals out of 
doors when we should so much prefer a snug cutlet at home? and 
coming to gaze at a little bit of driblet of water when we all expect 
floods any moment from the sky?” 

44 It is a pity,” said Lucy, divided between her natural inclina- 
tion to assent and consideration for Raymond’s feelings, “it is a 
pity that we have so unfavorable a day.” 

“ But it is always an unfavorable day — in England,” Bertie said. 
He had been “ abroad ” before he came to Farafield, and he liked 
to make this fact known. 

44 1 have never been anywhere but in England,” said Lucy, re 
gretfully. 

44 Nor I,” said Ray, defiant. 

44 Nor I,” said some one else, with a touch of scorn. 

‘‘Authors always travel about so much, don’t they?” cried an 
ingenue in a whisper which was full of awe; and this turned the 
laugh against Bertie. He grew red in spite of himself, and cast a 
vengeful glance at the young woman in question. 

“ Ah, you should have seen the day we had at Versailles; such 
lawns and terraces, such great trees against the bluest, brightest 
sky. Miss Trevor, do you know I think you should not venture to 
ride home.” 

44 Why?” said Ray, with restrained fury, thrusting himself be- 
tween them. 

44 1 did not suppose it mattered for you, Rushton; but Miss 
Trevor will get drenched There, I felt a drop already.” 

They all looked anxiously at the gray sky. “I should not like 
Jock to get wet,” said Lucy. 44 1 do not mind for myself.” 

44 Come round to this side, you will see the fall better,” Raymond 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 329 

said; and then he added, “ come along, come along this short way. 
Let us give that fellow the slip. It is not the rain he is thinking of, 
but to spoil my pleasure.” 

“ Versailles is something like Windsor, is it not? have you been 
there lately, Mr. Russell? Oh, we shall soon know. I can always 
tell when you gifted people have been traveling by your next book,” 
said one of the ladies. 

“ Suppose we follow Rushton,” said Bertie. “ He knows all the 
best points of view.” 

And once more the train was at Ray’s heels. “ I think I do feel 
the rain now,” Raymond cried, “ and listen, wasn’t that thunder? 
It would not be wise to be caught in a thunder-storm here. Rus- 
sell, look after Mrs. Chumley, and make for the open; I will get 
Miss Tre ^or round this way. ’ ’ 

“ Thunder!” the ladies cried, alarmed, and there was a rush 
toward an open space. 

“ Nonsense,” cried Bertie, “ there is no thunder,” but it was he 
himself who had prophesied the rain, and they put no faith in him. 
As for Lucy, she served Raymond’s puipose involuntarily by speed- 
ing along the nearest opening. 

“ Jock is always frightened. I must see after him,” she cried. 
Raymond thought she did it for his special advantage, and his heart 
rose; yet sunk, too, for now it was certain that the moment had 
come. 

“ Stop,” he said, panting after her, “it is all right, there is no 
hurry, I did not mean it. Did you ever see thunder out of such a 
sky?” 

“ But it was you who said it,” Lucy cried. 

“ Don’t you know why I said it? To get rid of those tiresome 
people; I have never had time to say a word to you all the day.” 

“ Then don’t you really think it will rain?” Lucy said, doubt- 
fully, looking at the sky. She was much more occupied with this 
subject than with his wish to say something to her. “ Perhaps it 
would be best to leave the horses, and drive home if there is room?” 
she said. 

“ I wish I were as sure of something else as that it will not rain. 
Stay a little, don’t be in such a hurry,” said Ray. “Ah, if you 
only knew how I want to speak to you; but either some one comes, 
or — I funk it. I am more afraid of you than of the queen.” 

“ Afraid of— me?” Lucy laughed a little; but looked at him, and 
grew nervous in spite of herself. “ Don’t you think we had better 
wait for the others?” she said. 


330 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ I have funked it fifty times; but it does not get any easier by 
being put off; for if you were to say you would have nothing to do 
with me I don’t know what would happen,” said Ray. He spoke 
with real alarm and horror, for indeed he did know something that 
would inevitably happen. The cutting short of all his pleasures, 
the downfall of a hundred hopes. “We have seen a great deal of 
each other since you came home, and we have got on very well.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lucy, “ very well! I think I hear them coming 
this way.” 

‘ ‘ No, they are not likely to come this way. I have always got 
on well with you, I don’t know how it is; often I can’t get on with 
ladies; but you are always so jolly, you are so good-tempered; I 
don’t know any one half so nice,” said the youth, growing red. 
“ I am not a hand at compliments, and I never was what you call a 
ladies’ man,” he continued, floundering and feeling that he had 
made a mistake in thus involving himself in so many words. 
“ Look here, I think you are the very nicest girl I ever met in my 
life.” 

“ Oh, no,” Lucy said, growing graver and more grave, “lam 
sure you are making a mistake.” 

“Not the least a mistake — I like everything about you, ” said 
Raymond, astonished at his own fervor and sincerity. “ You are 
always so jolly; and we have known each other all our lives, when 
we were quite babies, don’t you remember? I always called you 
Lucy then. Lucy — our people seem to think that you and I — don’t 
you think? I do believe we should get on just as well together all 
our lives, if you were willing to try.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Raymond,” cried Lucy, distressed, “ why, why should 
you talk to me like this? We are good friends, and let us stay good 
friends. I am sure you don’t in your heart want anything more.” 

“ But I do, ” cried Raymond, piqued. “You think I am too 
young, but I am not so very young; many a fellow is married be- 
fore he is my age. Why shouldn’t I want a wife as well as the 
others? I do; but Lucy, there is no wife I care for but you.” 

“ Mr. Raymond, we must make haste, or we shall be caught in 
the rain.” 

“ What do I care if we are caught in the rain? But there is not 
going to he any rain, it was only to get rid of the others,” Ray- 
mond said, breathless; and then he added with almost tragical 
pleading, “ It would be better for me that we should be swept away 
by the rain than that you should not give me an answer. ’ ’ He put 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 331 


his hand upon her sleeve. “Lucy, is it possible that you do not 
like me?” he said. 

“ I like you very well,” cried Lucy, with tears in her eyes;, “ but, 
oh, why should you talk to me like this? Why should you spoil 
everything? You will think after this that we never can be friends 
any more.” 

“ Then you will not?” said Ray. He was a great deal more dis- 
appointed than he had thought he could be, and even the satisfac- 
tion of having got it over did not console him. His face lengthened 
more and more as he stood opposite to her, barring her passage, 
leaning against the stem of a tree. “ I never thought you would be 
so hard upon a fellow. I never thought,” said Raymond, his lip 
quivering, “ that after all you would throw me off at the last.” 

“ I am not throwing you off at the last — it has always been the 
same,” said Lucy; “oh, could not you have left me alone?” she 
cried, half piteous, half indignant. She walked straight forward, 
passing him, and he did not any longer attempt to bar the way. He 
followed with his head drooping, his arms hanging limp by his side, 
the very image of defeat and discomfiture. Poor Ray! he could 
have cried when he thought of all he had lost, of all he was losing; 
and yet there began to gleam over his mind a faint reflection of con- 
tent in that it was over. This at least was a thing which nobody 
could expect him to repeat any more. 


CHAPTER XL. 

DISCOMFITURE. 

The troubles of this interesting picnic were not yet over; there 
was tea to be made pver an impromptu fire from a gypsy kettle, 
which the young people generally thought one of the most amusing 
performances of all. And indeed they were all glad of the 
warmth of the tea, and anxious to get as near as they could 
to the comforting blaze of the fire, notwithstanding the smoke 
which made their eyes smart. Mrs. Rushton was busily engaged 
over this, when Lucy and Ray, one following the other, made their 
appearance in the center of the proceedings; the others were drop- 
ping in from different sides, and in the important operation of mak- 
ing the tea Mrs. Rushton did not perceive the very evident symp- 
toms of what had happened. It was only when a gleam of fire- 
light lighted up the group and showed her son, standing listless 


332 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


and cast-down, full in the way of the smoke, and receiving it as he 
might have received the fire of an enemy, that the catastrophe 'be- 
came evident to her. She gave him a hasty glance, half furious, 
half pitiful. Was it all over? Poor Mrs. Rusliton! She was obliged 
to stand there over the fire boiling her kettle, now and then getting 
a gust of smoke in her face, and obliged to laugh at it, appealed to 
on all sides, and obliged to smile and reply, obliged to make believe 
that her whole soul was absorbed in her tea-making, and in the 
monotonous question, who took sugar, and who did not? while all 
the while her mind was distracted with anxiety and full of a hun- 
dred questions. Talk of pyschometric facts! If Mr. Galton would 
measure the thoughts of a poor lady, who, while she puts the tea in 
her teapot, and inquires audibly with a sweet smile whether Mrs. 
Price takes sugar, has all at once six ideas presented to her con- 
sciousness: 1st. The discomfiture of Ray; 2d. The alienation of 
Lucy; 3d. Her husband’s fury at all these unnecessary expenses, 
which he had never countenanced; 4tli. The horse which would 
have to be sold again, probably at a loss, having failed like Ray; 
5th. How to get all her party home, it being evident that Ray and 
Lucy would not ride together as they came; and 6th, with a poign- 
ant sting that embittered all the rest, of the exultation of her 
friends and rivals in witnessing her failure — if Mr. Galton could do 
that, weighing the weight of each, and explaining how they could 
come together, yet every one keep distinct, it would indeed be worth 
a scientific philosopher’s while. But Mrs. Rushton, it is to be 
feared, would have scoffed at Mr. Galton. She stood at the stake, 
with the smoke in her face, and smiled like a martyr. “ Sugar? I 
thought so, but so many people don’t take it. I lose my head alto- 
gether, ’ ’ cried the poor lady. ‘ ‘ Ray, come here, make haste and 
hand Mrs. Price her tea.” Even when Ray did come close to her, 
however, she could not, encircled as she was, ask him any ques- 
tions. She looked at him, that was enough; and he in reply slight- 
ly, imperceptibly, shook his head. Good heavens! and there was 
the girl standing quite unmoved, talking to somebody, after she had 
driven a whole family to despair! What could girls be made of? 
Mrs. Rushton thought. 

And just at the moment when this fire of suspense, yet certainty, 
was burning in her heart, lo, the heavens were opened, and a shower 
of rain came pouring down, dispersing the company, pattering 
among the trees. Mrs. Rushton was like the captain of a ship- 
wrecked ship, she was the last to leave the post of danger. Though 
the hissing of the shower forced up a black and heavy cloud of 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


333 


smoke which nearly choked her, she kept her place and shrieked 
out directions to the others. ‘ ‘ The Abbey ruins, the west wing, ’ ’ 
she cried; there was shelter to be found there. And now it was 
that Raymond showed how much filial affection was left in him. 
He snatched a water-proof cloak from the heap and put it round his 
mother. “You want shelter as much as any one,’’ he cried. “ Oh, 
Ray!” exclaimed the poor lady as they hurried along together, the 
last of all the scudding figures under umbrellas and every kind of 
improvised shelter. She held his arm tight, and he clung closely to 
her side. There was no more said between them, as they struggled 
along under the blinding rain. They had both been extinguished, 
their fires put out, their hopes brought to an end. 

As for Lucy, she shrunk away among the crowd, and tried to 
hide herself from Mrs. Rushlon’s eyes. She was not unconcerned, 
poor girl. Even the little glimmer of indignation which had woke 
in her was quenched in her sorrow for the trouble and disappoint- 
ment which she seemed to bring to everybody. Only this morning 
she had trembled before Mrs. Stone, and now it was these other 
people who lied been so kind to her, who had taken so much pains 
to please her, whom she had made unhappy. What could Lucy do? 
She did not want any of these men to come into her life. She liked 
them well enough in their own place; but why should she marry 
them? This she murmured feebly in self- justification; but her 
heart was very heavy, and she could not offer any compensation to 
Ray. Hr was not poor, he did not come into the range of the will. 
She gathered her riding- skirt up about her and ran to the shelter of 
the Abbey walls when the shower came on, little Jock running by 
her side. They had nearly reached that refuge when Jock stumbled 
over a stone and fell, crying out to her for help. Almost before 
Lucy could stop, however, help came from another quarter. It was 
Bertie Russell who picked the little fellow up, and carried him 
s afely into the west wing of the Abbey, where the walls were still 
covered by a roof. “ He is not hurt,’’ Bertie said, “ and here is a 
dry corner. Why did you run away. Miss Trevor? I followed you 
everywhere, for I saw that there was annoyance in store for you.’’ 

“ Oh, no,’’ said Lucy, faintly; but it was consolatory to find a 
companion who would not blame her. He lifted Jock up into a 
window-seat, and he found her something to sit down upon and 
take breath, and then he arranged a place for himself between them, 
leaning against the wall. 

“ Did you get wet?” Bertie said; “ after this you will not think 
of riding home. I have got a coat which will cover Jock and you; 


334 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


what made them think of a picnic to-day? Picnics are always dan- 
gerous in this climate, but in October! Jock, little fellow, take off 
your jacket, it is wet, and put on this coat of mine. 

“But you will want it yourself,” said Lucy, very grateful. 
Bertie bore the aspect of an old friend, and the people at Farafield, 
though she had lived in Farafield all her life, were comparative 
strangers to her. She was moved to laugh when Jock appeared in 
the coat, which was so much too large for him, a funny little figure, 
his big eyes looking out from the collar that came over his ears, but 
comfortable, easy, and dry. “ He has been wrapped in my coat be- 
fore now,” Bertie said. “ Don’t you remember, Jock, on the heath 
when I had to carry you home? Mary expects to have him back, 
Miss Trevor, when you return to town. I have not told you, ” con- 
tinued Bertie, raising his voice, “ how Mrs. Berry-Montagu has 
taken me up, she who nearly made an end of me by that review; 
and even old Lady Betsinda has smiled upon me; oh, I must tell 
you about your old friends.” 

Theii dry corner was by this time shared by a number of the 
other guests, who were watching the sky through the great hole of 
a ruined window, and had nothing to talk about except the chances 
of the weather, whether “ it would leave off ,” whether there was 
any chance of getting home without a wetting, and sundry doubts 
and questions of the same kind. In the midst of these depressed 
and shivering people who had nothing to amuse them, it was fine to 
talk of Lady Betsinda and other names known in the higher society 
of Mayfair; and Bertie was not indifferent to this, whatever Lucy’s 
sentiments might be. 

“ I ran over to Homburg for a few weeks,” Bertie said. “ Every- 
body was there. I saw Lady Randolph, who was very kind to me 
of course/ She is always kind. We talked of you constantly, I 
need not tell you. But you should have seen Lady Betsinda in the 
morning taking the waters, without her lace, without her satin, a 
wonderful little old mummy swathed in folds of flannel. Can you 
imagine Lady Betsinda without her lace?” said Bertie, delighted 
with the effect he was producing. Mrs. Price and the rest had been 
caught in the full vacancy of their discussion about the rain. To 
hear of a Lady Betsinda was always interesting. They edged half 
consciously a little nearer, and stopped their conjectures in respect 
to the storm. 

“ I hear it is worth more than all the rest of her ladyship’s little 
property,” Bertie said. “ I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur, but 
I am told she has some very fine point d’Alengon which has nevef 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 335 

been equaled. Poor old Lady Betsinda! her lace is what she stands 
upon. The duchess, they say, declares everywhere that the point 
d’Alen^on is an heirloom, and that Lady Betsinda has no right to 
it; but if she were separated from her lace I think she would die.” 

“It is very dirty,” said Lucy, with simplicity. She was not 
sure that she liked him to call the attention of the others by this talk 
which everybody could hear, but she was glad to escape from the 
troublesome circumstances of the moment. 

“Dirty!” he said, repeating her word in his higher tones. 

What is lace if it is not dirty? you might say the same of the poor 
old woman herself, perhaps; but a duke's daughter is always a 
duke’s daughter, Miss Trevor, and point is always point. And the 
more blood you have, and the more lace you have, the more candid 
you feel yourself entitled to be about your flannel. A fine lady can 
always make a fright of herself with composure. She used to hold 
out a grimy finger to me, and ash; after you. ’ ’ 

“ After me?” said Lucy, shrinking. If he would but speak 
lower, or if she could but steal away! Everybody was listening 
now, even Mrs. Rushton, who had just come in, shaking the rain 
off her bonnet. She had found Lucy out the moment she entered 
with that keen gaze of displeasure which is keener than anything 
but love. 

“Yes,” said Bertie, still raising his voice. Then he bent toward 
her, and continued the conversation in a not inaudible whisper. 
“ This is not for everybody’s ears,” he said. “ She asked me al- 
ways, ‘ How is little Miss Angel — the Angel of Hope ’?” 

A vivid color covered Lucy’s face. She was looking toward Mrs. 
Rushton, and who could doubt that Raymond’s mother saw the 
flush and put her own interpretation upon it? Of this Lucy did not 
think, but she was annoyed and disconcerted beyond measure. She 
drew away as far as possible among the little group around them. 
Had she not forgotten all this, put it out of her mind? Was there 
nobody whom she could trust? She shrunk from the old friend 
with whom she had been so glad to take refuge; after all he was 
not an old friend; and was there not, far or near, any one person 
whom she could trust? 

When, however, the carriages came, and the big break, into 
which Lucy and Emmie and little Jock had to be crowded, since 
the weather was too broken to make it possible that they could ride 
home, Bertie managed to get the place next her there, and engrossed 
her the whole way. He held an umbrella over her head when the 
rain came down again, he busied himself officiously in putting her 


336 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 

cloak round her, he addressed all his conversation to her, talking 
of Lady Randolph, and of the people whom they two alone knew. 
Sometimes she was interested, sometimes amused by his talk, but 
always disturbed and troubled by its exclusiveness and absorbing 
character; and she did not know how to free herself # from it. The 
rest of the party grew tired, and cross, and silent, but Bertie never 
failed. It was he who jumped down at the gate of the Terrace, and 
handed her down from amid all the limp and draggled figures of 
the disappointed merry-makers. They were all too wet to make 
anything possible but the speediest return to their homes, notwith- 
standing the pretty supper-table all shining with flowers and lights 
which awaited them in the big house in the market-place, and at 
which the Rushtons, tired and disappointed, and drenched, had to 
sit down alone. Bertie’s was the only cheerful voice which said 
good-night. He attended her to her door with unwearying devo- 
tion. Raymond, who had insisted upon riding after the carriages, 
passed by all wet and dismal, as the door opened. He put his hand 
to his hat with a morose and stiff salutation. With the water stream- 
ing from the brim of that soaked hat he passed by stiffly like a fig- 
ure of despair. And Bertie laughed. “ It has been a dismal expe- 
dition, but a most delightful day. There is nothing I love like the 
rain,” he said. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

PHILIP’S DECISION. 

Some one else got down from the break after Lucy had been care- 
fully handed out by Bertie, and followed her silently in the rain and 
dark to the door. He went in after her, with a passing nod of good- 
night to Bertie, who was somewhat discomfited when he turned 
round and almost stumbled upon the dark figure of Lucy’s cousin, 
who went in after her with the ease of relationship without any pre- 
liminaries. Bertie was discomfited by this apparition, and felt that 
a cousin was of all things in the world the most inconvenient at this 
special moment. But he could do nothing but retire, when the door 
was closed, and return to his sister, who was waiting for him. He 
could not bid Philip begone, or forbid him to interfere. Philip had 
a right, whereas Bertie had none. But he went away reluctantly, 
much disposed to grumble at Katie, who awaited him very quietly 
at the corner of the road. Katie’s heart was not so light as usual, 
any more than her brother’s. Why did Mr. Rainy leave her with- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


337 


out a word when, following Bertie and Lucy, he had helped her 
out of the crowded carriage? They had been together almost all 
the day, and Katie had not minded the rain; why had he left her 
now so hastily, without anything but a good-night, instead of tak- 
ing the opportunity of going with her to the White House, as he had 
done before? Two heads under one umbrella can sometimes make 
even the mud and wet of a dark road supportable, and Katie had 
expected this termination to the day with a little quickening of her 
heart. But he had put up his umbrella over her, and had left her, 
following up her brother with troubled haste, leaving Katie wounded 
and disappointed, and a little angry. It was not even civil, she 
said to herself, and one or two hot tears came to her eyes in the 
darkness. When Bertie joined her, she said nothing, nor did he. 
They crossed the road and stumbled through the mud and darkness 
to the White House, where Katie did not expect a very cheerful re- 
ception; for she knew, having her faculties sharpened by regard for 
her brother’s interest, that something had happened to St. Clair, 
who had gone so abruptly away. 

“ What does Rainy want going in there at this time of night?” 
Bertie said, as they slid along the muddy way. 

*' How should I know?” Katie said, sharply. “I am not Mr 
Rainy’s keeper.” 

Poor girl, she did not mean to be disagreeable; but it was hard to 
be deserted, and then have her attention thus called to the de- 
sertion. 

“ Is he after Lucy, too?” said her brother. Oh, how blind men 
are! not to see that if he were after Lucy he was guilty of the most 
shameful deceit to another. 

“ Oh, I suppose you are all after Lucy! she turns all your heads,” 
Katie cried, with a harsh laugh. Money! that was the only thing 
they thought of; and what a fool she had been to think that it was 
possible that anybody could care for her with Lucy in the way! 

As for Philip, he went in, following Lucy, with scarcely a word 
to any one. Mrs. Ford came out as usual, disposed to scold, but 
She stopped when she saw Philip behind. “ I have something to 
say to Lucy,” he said, passing her with a nod, and following Lucy 
upstairs. This made Mrs. Ford forget that bedtime was approach- 
ing, and that it was full time to bolt and bar all the windows. She 
went into her parlor and sat down, and listened with all the breath 
less awe that surrounds a great event. What could he be going to 
say? what but the one thing that would finish all doubt? Mrs. 
Ford had always been a partisan of Philip. And though she fully 


338 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


valued Lucy’s fortune, it did not occur to her that a girl could re- 
fuse “ a good offer,” for no reason at all. That girls do still refuse 
“ good off el’s,” in the very face of the statistics which point out to 
them the excess of womankind and unlikelihood of marriage, is one 
of those contradictions of human nature which puzzle the philoso- 
pher. Mrs. Ford thought that it was Lucy’s first experience of the 
kind, and though she was anxious, she can not be said to have much 
fear. She put out her gas, all but one light, and waited, alive to 
every sound. 

It would be hard to say why it was that Philip Rainy followed 
Lucy home. He had perceived his mistake the last time they had 
been together, and the folly of the constant watch which he had 
kept upon her; it had done him harm, he felt — it had made him 
‘ lose caste,” which was the most dreadful penalty he could think 
of. And the result of this conviction was that on being asked late, 
and he felt only on Lucy’s account, to this second party, he had 
made up his mind that this time he would possess his soul in si- 
lence. The thought that Lucy’s money might go to make some 
blockhead happy, some fool who had nothing to do with the Rainys, 
was no less intolerable to him than ever; but he began to feel that 
he could not prevent this by interfering with Lucy’s amusements, 
and that on the oher hand he lost friends, so far as he was himself 
concerned. Therefore, he had carefully kept away from Lucy dur- 
ing the whole day; and — what else was there to do? — he fell imme- 
diately into the still more serious Charybdis which balanced this 
Scylla — that is to say, he found himself involuntarily, almost un 
willingly, by the side of Katie Russell. Not much had been seen 
of them all the day; they had not minded the threatening of the 
rain. When the party was starting to go away they had been found 
at the very last under the same umbrella, leisurely making their 
way under the thickest of the trees, and keeping the whole party 
waiting. Between that moment and the arrival of the break at the 
Terrace Philip could not have given a very clear account of what 
had happened. It had beenja kind of troubled elysium, a happiness 
darkened only by the thought which would occur now and then 
that it was an unlawful pleasure, and out of the question. He had 
no right to be happy— at least in that way What he ought to have 
done would have been to make himself useful to everybody, to 
please the givers of the feast, and to show himself the popular use- 
ful young mail, worthy of all confidence, which he had been lii*h 
erto believed to be. This, or else to secure Lucv tb« heiress-eousna, 
whom he had the best right to please— to carry ner off triumphantly 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


339 


before everybody’s eyes, and to show all the small great people who 
patronized him how entirely superior he was to their patronage. But 
this latter was a step that it would only have been safe to take had 
he been entirely assured of its success; and he was not at all assured 
of its success either on one side or the other. Lucy did not want 
him, and he did not want Lucy. This was the fact, he felt; it was 
a fact that filled him with vexation unspeakable. Why should not 
he want Lucy? why should he want somebody quite different— a 
little girl without a sixpence, without interest or connection? Could 
anything be so perverse, so disappointing! but he could not explain 
or analyze it. He was forced to confess the fact, and. that was all. 
He did not want Lucy; the question remained, should he compel 
himself to like her, and after that compel her to like him, notwith- 
standing this double indifference? The titter with which his late 
appearance had been received when he returned to the party, and 
when Katie, all shamefaced and blushing, had been helped into the 
overcrowded carriage, amid smiles, yet general impatience, for the 
rain was coming down, and everybody was anxious to get home, had 
shown him how far astray from the path of wisdom he had gone. 
Perhaps this conviction would have worn off had he been by Katie’s 
side crowded up into a corner, and feeling himself enveloped in that 
atmosphere of her which confused all his faculties with happiness, 
whenever he was with her, yet was not capable of being explained. 
But Philip was thrust into an already too large cluster of men on 
the box, and, crowded there amid the dripping of the umbrellas, 
had time to turn over in his mind many a troublesome thought. 
Whither was he going? what had he been doing? was he mad alto- 
gether to forget all his interests, to cast prudence behind him, and 
laugh at all that was necessary in his circumstances? The bitter 
predominated over the sweet as he chewed the cud of thought, 
seated on an inch of space among the bags and hampers, and um- 
brellas of other men, with the confused babble of the break behind 
him, which was all one mass of damp creatures, under a broken 
firmament of umbrellas where a few kept up a spasmodic fire 
of gloomy gayety, while all the rest were wrapped in still 
more gloomy silence. lie heard Katie’s voice now and then 
among the others, and was partially wounded by the sound of it; 
then took- himself to task and did his best to persuade himself that 
he was glad she could talk and get some pleasure out of it, and had 
not, like himself, dropped into a nether- world of gloom from that 
foolish paradise in which they had lost themselves. Much better if 
she did not care! he said to himself, with a bitter smile, and this 


340 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


thought helped to bring out and increase his general sense of dis- 
comfiture. The whole business must be put a stop to, he said to 
himself, with angry energy. And this it was which, when the 
break stopped to set down Lucy, suggested to him the step he had 
now taken. Katie was making her way out between Ihe knees of 
the other passengers, from the place at the upper end of the car- 
riage, where she had been all but suffocated, when Philip jumped 
down. He caught, by the light of the lamp, a grin on the counte- 
nance of the man who was helping her out, as he said, “ Oh, here’s 
Rainy.” But for that he would most likely have gone off with her 
to the White House and snatched a few moments of fearful joy in 
tne teeth of his own resolution. But that grin drove him wild. He 
put up his umbrella over her head, and left her abruptly. “ I must 
see Lucy to-night,” he said, leaving her there, waiting for her 
brother. It was brutal, he felt, after all that had passed, but what, 
unless he wanted to compromise himself utterly, what could he do? 
He took no time to think, as he followed his cousin and her com- 
panion through the rain. 

But when he had followed Lucy silently upstairs he did not know 
quite what to do or say next. Lucy stopped on her way to her 
room to change her habit, and looked round upon him with sur- 
prise. “ Is it you, Philip?” she asked, wondering; then added, “ I 
am glad to see you, I have scarcely seen you all day;” and led the 
way into the pink drawing-room. Philip sat down as he was told, 
but he did not know why he had come there, or w r hat he wanted to 
say. 

“ The party has been rather spoiled by the rain,” she said. 

“I suppose so,” he answered, vaguely. “Did you like it? 
Sometimes one does not mind the rain.” 

“ I minded it very much,” said Lucy, with a sigh; then, feeling 
that she was likely to commit herself if she pursued this subject, 
she added, “lam rather glad the time is over for these parties; they 
are — a trouble. The first one is pleasant — the others — ” 

Then she paused, and Philip’s mind went back to the first one, 
and to this which was just over. He had not enjoyed the first, ex- 
cept the end of it, when he took Katie home. And this he had en- 
joyed, but not the end. His imagination escaped from the present 
scene, and he seemed to see Katie going along the muddy road, 
under his umbrella, but without him. What could she ihink? that 
he had abandoned her? or would she care whether he abandoned 
her or not? 

“ That depends,” said Philip, oracularly, and, like Lucy, with a 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


341 


sigh; though the sigh was from a different cause. Then he looked 
at her across the table. She had not seated herself, but stood in her 
habit, looking taller and more graceful than usual, more high-bred 
too; for the girls whom Philip was in the habit of meeting did not 
generally indulge in such an expensive exercise as that of riding. 
He looked at her with a sort of spectator air, as though balancing 
her claims against those of the others. “ I should not wonder,” he 
said, “ if you would like your season at Farafield to be over alto- 
gether, and to be free to go back to your fine friends.” 

“ Why should you say my fine friends?” said Lucy, with gentle 
indignation; and then more softly, but also with a sigh, for she had 
been left for a long time without any news of one at least of them, 
whom she began to think her only real friend; “ but indeed you 
are right, and I should be very glad to get back — all was so quiet 
there.” 

“ So quiet! If you are not quiet in Farafield where should you 
know tranquillity?” cried Philip, with a little mock laugh. He felt 
that she must intend this for a joke, and in his present temper it 
seemed to him a very bad joke. 

Lucy looked at him with a momentary inquiry in her eyes — a 
question which had a great deal of wistfulness and anxiety in it. 
Could she tell her troubles to him? He was her kinsman — who so 
well qualified to advise her? But then she shook her head, and 
turned away from him with an impatient sigh. 

“What is it you mean?” he said, with some excitement. His 
mind was in a turmoil, which he could not tell how to still. He 
felt himself at the mercy of his impulses, not knowing what he 
might be made to do in the next five minutes. It was the merest 
“ toss-up ” what he would do. Never had he felt himself so entirely 
irresponsible, so without independent meaning, so ready to be hur- 
ried in any direction. He did not feel in him the least spark of love 
for Lucy. He felt impatient with her, wroth with all the world for 
making so much of her, indignant that she should be preferred too 
— others. But with all that he did not know what he might find 
himself saying to her the next moment. The. only thing was that 
it would not be his doing, it would be the force of the current of 
Fate, on which he felt himself whirling along — to be tossed over the 
rapids or dashed against the rocks, he did not know how or when. 

“ What do you mean?” he repeated; “ you look mysterious, as if 
you had something to tell— what is it? I have seen nothing of you 
the whole day. We have been nominally at the same party, and 
we are cousins, though you don’t seem to remember it much, and 


342 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


we once were friends; but I have scarcely seen you. You have 
been absorbed by other attractions, other companions.” 

“ Philip!” said Lucy, faltering and growing pale. Was he going 
to desert her, too? 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it is quite true. I am one that it might have 
been supposed likely you would turn to. Natural feeling should 
have made you turn to me. I have always tried to stand by you; 
and you have got what would have enriched the whole family — all 
to yourself. Nature pointed to me as your nearest; and yet you 
have never, ’ ’ he said, pausiag to give additional bitterness to his 
words, and feeling himself caught in an eddy, and whirling round 
in that violent stream without any power of his own, “ never shown 
the slightest inclination to turn or to cling to me.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, Philip — ” Lucy began. 

“ Why should you say indeed, indeed? What is indeed, indeed? 
Just what I tell you. You have never singled me out, whoever 
might be your favorite. All your family have been put at a disad- 
vantage for you; but you never singled me out, never showed me 
any preference — which would have been the best way of setting 
things right. ’ ’ 

There was a look of alarm on Lucy’s face. 

“ If it is my money, Philip, I wish you had the half of it, or the 
whole of it,” she said. “ I wish I could put it all away, and stand 
free.” 

“ It is not your money,” he said, “it is your—” And here he 
stopped short, and looked at her with staring troubled eyes. The 
eddy had nearly whirled him away, when he made a grasp at the 
bank, and felt himself, all at once, to recover some mastery of his 
movements. He did not know very well what he had been going to 
say; “ your— ” what? love? It was not love surely. Not such a 
profanation as that. He looked at her with a sudden suspicious 
1 hreatening pause. Then he burst again into a harsh laugh. 
“What was I going to say? I don’t know what I was going to 
say.” 

“ What is the matter with you, Philip? I am your friend and 
your cousin; there is something wrong— tell me what it is.” Lucy 
came up to him full of earnest sympathy, and put her hand on his 
shoulder, and looked with hectic anxiety in his face. “Tell me 
what it is,” she said, with a soft tone of entreaty. “I am as good 
as your sister, Philip. If I could not do anything else I could be 
sorry for you at least. ’ ’ 

He looked up at her with the strangest staring look, feeling his 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IX ENGLAND. 


343 


head go round and round; and then he gave another loud sudden 
laugh, which alarmed her more. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “ yes, I’ll 
tell you. It is the best thing I can do. I was going — to make love 
to you, Lucy — love! — for your money.” 

She patted him softly on the shoulder, soothing him as if he had 
been a child confessing a fault. “No, no, Philip, no. I am sure 
you were not thinking of anything so unkind.” 

“ Lucy!” he said, seizing her hand, the other hand. She never 
even removed the one which lay softly, soothing him, on his 
shoulder. “You are a good girl. You don’t deserve to have a set 
of mean hounds round you as we all are. And yet— there are times 
when I feel as if I t could not endure to see you give your fortune, 
the great Rainy fortune, to some — other fellow. There! that is the 
truth. ’ ’ 

“ Poor Philip!” she said, shaking her head, and still moving her 
hand softly on his shoulder, with a little consolatory movement, 
calming him down. Then she added, with a smile, “You need not 
be in any troublle for that, for 1 am not going to give it to any — 
fellow. I never can by the will. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t put any trust in that,” he said, “ no one would put any 
trust in that. You will marry, of course, and then — it will be as 
Providence ordains, or your husband. He will take the command 
of it, and it will be his, whatever you may think now.” 

“ I do not think so,” said Lucy, with a smile, “and, besides, 
there is no such person. You need not trouble yourself about that.” 

Then Philip wrung her hand again, looking up at her in such 
deadly earnest that it took from him all sense of honor. “ Lucy, 
if I could have fallen in love with you, and you with me, that 
would have been the best thing of all,” he said. 

“ But you see it has not happened, Philip; it is not our fault.” 

“ No, I suppose not,” he said, gloomily, with a sigh; “ it is not 
my fault. I have tried my best; but things were too many for 
me.” Here he got up, shaking off unceremoniously Lucy’s hand. 
“ Good-night! you must be damp in your habit, and I’ve got wet 
feet,” he said. 

Mrs. Ford lay in wait for him as he came down-stairs, but he 
only said a hasty good-night to her as he went away. His feet 
were wet, and he realized the possibility of taking cold, which 
would be very awkward now that the duties of the school in Kent’s 
Lane had recommenced. Nevertheless, instead of going home, he 
crossed the road, and went stumbling among the mud toward the 
White House. What did he went there? he had a dim recollection 


344 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

of his umbrella, but it was not his umbrella he wanted. And Philip 
was fortunate, though, perhaps, he did not deserve it. A light 
flashed suddenly out from the White House as he reached the door. 
Bertie had taken his sister back, and had gone in, where he met but 
a poor reception. And Katie had come out to the door 1o see her 
brother depart. When she saw the other figure appearing in the 
gleam of light from the door, she gave a little shriek of mingled 
pleasure and malice. “ It is Mr. Rainy come for his umbrella! 
Here it is!” she said, diving into the hall and reappearing with the 
article in question, all wet and shining. She held it out to him, 
with a laugh in which there was a good deal of excitement, for 
Katie had not been without her share in the agitations of the even- 
ing. ” Here is your umbrella, Mr. Rainy. I was so glad to have 
it, and it is so good of you to save me the trouble of sending it 
back.” Philip stepped close up to the door, close to her as she 
stood on the threshold. “ It was not for the umbrella I came,” he 
said as he took it from her. “ I came only to look at the house you 
were in.” It was a strange place to make a declaration, with Bertie 
within hearing, the dark and humid night on one side, the blazing 
unsympathetic light of the hall on the other. But he was excited, 
too, and it seemed a . necessity upon him to commit himself, to go 
beyond the region of prudence, the place from which he could draw 
back. Katie grew suddenly pale, then blushed crimson, and drew 
away from the door, with a wavering, hesitating consent. “ That 
was not much worth the while,” she said, hurriedly. “Are you 
coming my way, Rainy?” said Bertie, who did not understand any- 
thing about it, and had his head full of other thoughts. 


CHAPTER XL1I. 

WHAT THE LADIES SAID. 

When Lucy awoke next morning a world of cares and troubles 
seemed to surround her bed. The previous day seemed nothing but 
a long imbroglio of discomforts, one after the other. First her in- 
terview with Mrs. Stone, then Raymond’s efforts to secure her 
attention, which she had not understood at the time, but which, as 
she looked back upon them, formed into a consistent pursuit of her 
which Lucy could not now believe herself to have been quite uncon- 
scious of. It seemed to her now that she had been hunted, and had 
managed to get away again and again, only to fall at last into the 
snare from which she finally escaped only with another hurt and 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


345 


wound. Poor Ray’s version of this would have been a very differ- 
ent one. He would have said that it was he who had been wounded 
and beaten, and that Lucy had remained mistress of the field. But 
that was not her own sensation. She had been hunted, and she had 
escaped, but with the loss of another friend, with the sense of hav- 
ing brought pain and disturbance to another set of people, who had 
been kind to her, and narrowed the world round about her. It 
seemed to Lucy, when she opened her eyes that morning, as if the 
skies were getting narrower and narrower, the circle of the universe 
closing in. It was becoming like the terrible prison in the story, 
which got less and less every day, till it crushed the unhappy in- 
habitant within. The White House first and now the Ruslitons. 
Where was she to turn for safety? 

When she went down-stairs she found Mrs. Ford much disposed 
to improve the occasion, and preach a sermon upon the discomforts 
of pleasure-seeking. 

“ I hope it will teach her a lesson,” said Mrs. Ford; “ a woman 
at that age with pleasure never out of her head. Oh, I could for- 
give a child like you! You have not learned yet what vanity and 
vexation of spirit it all is, but a woman with children grown up, I 
wonder she is not ashamed of herself! and a fine company of drag- 
gle-tails you must have been when you came home. If I were Mr. 
Rushton I should give my wife a piece of my mind. I would not 
allow nor countenance for a moment such silly goings-on.” 

“ Mrs. Rushton did not do it for herself, Aunt Ford.” 

“ Oh, don’t tell me! Do you suppose she’d do it if she didn’t like 
it? Do you ever catch me at that sort of folly? I almost wished 
you to get something that would disgust you with such nonsense; 
but nothing will convince you, Lucy, nothing will make you see 
that it is your money, and only your money — ” 

How glad Lucy was when the meal was over, and she could 
escape upstairs! how thankful to have that pink drawing-room to 
take refuge in, though it was not a lovely place! Jock came with 
her, clinging to her hand. Jock’s eyes were bigger than ever as he 
raised them to his sister’s face, and she on her part clung to him, 
too, little though he was. She held Jock close to her, and gave 
him a tremendous kiss when they entered that lonely little domain 
in which they spent so much of their lives. When the door was 
closed and everything shut out, even the voices of the household 
which lived for them, yet had nothing to do with them, this 
room represented the world to Lucy and Jock. Even with 
the household they had no special tie— not even a servant 


346 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


attached to them, as they might have had if they had been 
brought up like the children of the rich. But they had been just so 
brought up that even the consolation of a kind nurse, an attendant 
of years, was denied to them, in the dismal isolation of that class 
which is too little raised above its servants to venture to trust them 
—which dares not to love its inferiors, because they are so very lit- 
tle inferior, yet will not bow to anything as above itself. They had 
nobody accordingly. Lucy’s maid even had been sent away. Jock 
had no old nurse to take refuge with; they clung together, the most 
forlorn young pair. “Is it your money, and only your money,’’ 
said the little boy, “ as Aunt Ford says?” 

“ Oh, Jock, how can I tell? I wish you and I had a little cottage 
somewhere in a wood, or on an island, and could go far away, and 
never see any one any more!” 

And Lucy cried; her spirit was broken, her loneliness seemed to 
seize upon her all at once, and the sense that she had no one to fall 
back upon, nobody to whom her money was not the inducement. 
This was an idea which in her simplicity she had never conceived 
before. She had thought a great deal of her money, and perhaps 
she had scarcely formed any new acquaintances without asking 
herself whether they wanted her help, whether it would be possible 
to place them upon the privileged list. It had been her favorite 
notion, the thing that occupied her mind most; but yet Lucy, 
thinking so much of her money, never thought that it was because 
of her money that people were kind to her. It had seemed so nat- 
ural, she was so grateful, and her heart was so open to all that made 
a claim upon it. And she and Jock were so lonely, so entirely 
thrown upon the charity of those around them. Therefore she had 
never thought of her wealth as affecting any one’s opinion of herself. 
Had any of her friends asked for a share of it, represented them- 
selves or others as in need of it, Lucy would have listened to them 
with delight, would have given with both hands and a joyful heart, 
at once gratifying herself and doing her duty according to her fath- 
er’s instructions. But that her friends should seek her because she 
was rich, and that one man after another should startle her youth 
with proposals of marriage because she was rich — this was an idea 
that had never entered into Lucy’s mind before. “ Your money and 
only your money;” the words seemed to ring in her ears, and when 
Jock asked, wondering if this were true, she could not make him 
any reply; oh, how could she tell? oh, that she had wings like a 
dove, that she might fly away, and hide herself and be at rest! and 
then she cried. What more could a girl so young and innocent do? 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN' ENGLAND. 


347 


Jock stood by her side, by her knee, and watched her with large 
serious eyes, which seemed to widen and widen with the strain and 
dilation of tears; but he would not cry with Lucy. He said slowly 
in a voice which it took him a great deal of trouble to keep steady. 
“ I do not think that Sir Tom — ” 

“ Oh,” cried Lucy, putting him away from her with a burst of 
still warmer tears. *' Sir Tom! You don’t know, Jock. Sir Tom 
is unkind, too.” 

Jock looked at her, swallowing all his unshed tears with an 
effort; he looked at her with that scorn which so often fills the mind 
of a child, to see the want of perception which distinguishes its 
elders. ‘‘Is it you that don’t know, ” said Jock. He would not 
argue the question. He left her, shaking as it might be the dust off 
his feet, and took the “ Heroes ” from the table, and threw himself 
down on his favorite rug. He would not condescend to argue. But 
after he had read a dozen pages he paused and raised himself upon 
his elbows, and looked at her With fine contempt. ‘‘ You!” he said, 
" you wouldn’t have known the gods if you had seen them. You 
would have thought Here was only a big woman. What is the good 
of talking to you?” 

Lucy dried her eyes in great surprise; she was quite startled and 
shaken by the reproof. She looked at the little oracle with a re- 
spect which was mingled at once with awe and with gratitude. If 
he would but say something more! But, instead of uttering any 
further deliverance, he dropped his elbows again, and let himself 
down into the rug, and became altogether unconscious at once of 
her presence and her difficulties, indifferent as the gods themselves 
to the sorrows of mortal men. 

It is not to be supposed, however, that, after all this, Lucy could 
settle with much tranquillity to her book, which was the history 
which she had been reading so conscientiously. When St. Clair had 
withdrawn he had taken with him the history-book (it was Mr. 
Froude’s version of that oft-told tale), which was as easy to read as 
any novel, and Lucy was left with her old text-book, which was as 
dry as facts could make it. She could not read, the book dropped 
upon her knee half a dozen times in half an hour, and the time of 
study was nearly over when some one came with a soft knock to 
the door. It was Miss Southwood, who came in with a shawl round 
her, and her close, old-fashioned bonnet tied over her ears. She 
came in somewhat breathless, and plunged into a few set phrases 
about the weather without a moment’s pause. 

“ What a dreadful day for your picnic! I could not help thinking 


348 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 

of you through all that rain. Did you get very wet, Lucy? and 
you were riding, too. You must have got everything spoiled that 
you had on.” 

“ Oh, no, for we drove home; but it was not very pleasant.” 

“ Pleasant! I should think not It was very foolish — what could 
you expect in October? Mrs. Rushton must have had some object. 
What did she mean by it? Ah, my dear, you were a great deal 
safer in Maria’s hands; that is a scheming woman,” cried Miss 
South wood. Then she touched Lucy on the arm, and made signs at 
Jock on the rug; “ wouldn’t you — 5 ’ she said, making a gesture with 
her hand toward the door, “ for I want to speak to you — by your- 
self.” 

“You need not mind Jock,” said Lucy; “he is always there. 
When he has a book to read he never cares for anything else.” 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t trust to his not caring — little pitchers — and then 
you never know when they may open their mouths and blurt every- 
thing out. Come this way a little,” Miss South wood said, leading 
Lucy to the window, and sinking her voice to a whisper. “ I have 
a note to you from Maria; but, my dear, I wouldn’t give it you 
without saying, you must not take it by the letter, Lucy. For my 
part, I don’t agree with it at all. It ought to have been sent to 
you last night; but I am Frank’s aunt as well as Maria. I have a 
right to my say, too; and I don’t agree with it, I don’t at all agree 
with it,” Miss Southwoodsaid, anxiously. She watched Lucy’s 
face with great concern while she opened the note, standing against 
the misty-white curtains at the window. The countenance of little 
Miss Southwood was shaded by the projecting eaves of her bonnet, 
but it was very full of anxiety, and the interval seemed long to her 
though the note was short. This is what Mrs. Stone said : 

“ Dear Lucy, — On thinking over the extraordinary proposal you 
made vesterday I think it right to recommend you to dismiss all 
idea oi my nephew, Frank St'. Clair, out of your mind. Your offer 
is very well meant, but it is impossible, and I trust he will never be 
so deeply wounded as he would be by hearing of the compensation 
which you have thought proper to suggest. I don’t wish to be un- 
kind, but it is only your ignorance that makes the idea pardonable; 
I forgive, and will try to forget it; but I trust you will take precau- 
tions to prevent it from ever reaching the ears of Mr. St. Clair. 

“ Your friend, 

“ Maria Stone.” 

This letter brought the tears to Lucy’s eyes. “ I did not mean to 
be unkind. Oh, Miss Southwood, you did not think I wanted to in- 
sult any one.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


349 


“ It is all nonsense; of course you never meant to insult him,” 
said Miss Southwood, anxiously. ' ‘ It is Maria who is cracked, I 
think. Money is never an insult — unless there is too little of it,” 
she added, cautiously. “ Of course if you were to offer a gentleman 
the same as you would give to a common man — But my opinion, 
Lucy, is that Frank himself should be allowed to judge. We ought 
pot to sacrifice his interest for our pride. It is he himself who ought 
to decide.” 

“ I do not want to give too little. Oh,” said Lucy, “ if you knew 
how glad I would be to think it was all gone! I thought at first it 
would be delightful to help everybody — to give them whatever they 
wanted.” 

“ But if you give all your money away you will not be a very 
great heiress any more.” 

‘'That was what papa meant,” said Lucy. ” He thought be- 
cause my uncle made it I should have the pleasure of giving it 
back.” 

Miss Southwood looked at her with a very grave face. “ My 
dear,” she said, “ if I were you I would not speak of it like this, I 
would not let it be known. As it is, you might marry anybody; 
you might have a duke, I verily believe, if you liked; but if it is 
known that the money is not yours after all, that you are not the 
great heiress everybody thinks, it will spoil your prospects, Lucy. 
Listen to me, for I am speaking as a friend; now that you are not 
going to marry Frank, I can’t have any motive, can I? I would 
not say a word about it till after I was married, Lucy, if I were in 
your place. It will spoil all your prospects, you will see.” 

She raised her voice unconsciously as she gave this advice, till even 
little Jock was roused. He got upon his elbows and twisled him- 
self round to look at her. And the stare of his great eyes had a 
fascinating effect upon Miss Southwood. She turned round, invol- 
untarily drawn by them, and said with a half shriek, ” Good Lord! 
I forgot that child. ’ 

As for Lucy, she made no reply; she only half understood what was 
meant by the spoiling of her prospects, and this serious remonstrance 
had much less effect upon her than words a great deal less weighty. 

“ Will you tell me what I am to do?” she said simply; “and 
how much do you think it should be. Miss Southwood? Gentle- 
men spend a great deal more than women. I will write at once to 
my guardian.” 

“ To your guardian!” Miss Southwood cried; and this time with 




350 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK ENGLAND. 

a real though suppressed shriek, “ you will write to your guardian 
— about Frank?” 

Here Lucy laughed softly in spite of herself. “ You do not think 
I could keep thousands of pounds in my pockets? and besides, it 
has all to be done — like business.” 

“ Like business!” Miss Southwood was unreasonably, incom- 
prehensibly wounded; “ write to your guardian,” she said, faintly, 
44 about Frank — manage it like business! Oh, Lucy, I fear it was I 
that was mistaken, and Maria that understood you, after all!” 

Why did she cry? Lucy stood by wondering, yet troubled, while 
her visitor threw herself into a chair and wept. 44 Oh,” she cried, 
“ I that thought you were a lady! But what is bred in the bone 
will come out. To offer a favor, and then to expose a person — who 
is much better born and more a gentleman than yourself!” 

This new blow entirely overwhelmed Lucy. She did not know 
what to reply. Whatever happened she began to think, she must 
always be in the wrong. She was not a lady, she had no delicacy 
of feeling; had not Mrs. Russell said so before? Lucy felt herself 
sink into unimaginable depths. They all despised her, or, what 
was worse, thought of her money, shutting their hearts against 
herself, and she was so willing, so anxious that they should have 
her money, so little desirous to get any credit from it. After awhile 
she laid her hand softly upon her visitor’s shoulder. 44 Miss South- 
wood,” she said, in her soft little deprecating voice, 44 if you would 
only think for a moment I am only a girl, I do not keep it myself. 
They only let me have a little, just a liltle, when I want it. It is 
in the will that my guardians must know, and help me to decide. 
Dear Miss Southwood, don’t be angry, fori can not— I cannot 
do anything else. It is no disgrace not to have money, and no credit 
or pleasure to have it,” Lucy said, with a deep sigh, 44 no one can 
know that so well as me. ’ ' 

44 You little goose,” said Miss Southwood, 44 why, it is everything 
to you! who do you think would have taken any notice of you, who 
would have made a pet of you, but for your money? I mean, of 
course,” she said, with a compunction, seeing the effect her words 
produced, 44 except steady old friends like Maria and me.” 

Poor little Lucy had grown very pale; her limbs trembled under 
her, her blue eyes got a wistful look which went to the heart of the 
woman who had not, so opaque are some intelligences, intended to 
be unkind. Miss Southwood, even now. did not quite see how she 
had been unkind. It was as plain as daylight to her that old John 
Trevor’s daughter had no claim whatever upon the consideration of 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


351 


ladies and gentlemen, except on account of her money; which was 
not to say that she might not, however, have friends in a humbler 
class, who might care for her, for herself alone. As for Lucy, she 
dropped down upon a chair, and said no more, her heart was as 
heavy as lead. Wherever she turned was not this dismal burden 
taken up and repeated, “ Your money, and your money alone ”? 

“Oh, no, it does not matter. Must I write to Mr. Chervil, or 
must it all be given up?” said Lucy, faintly, “ and Mr. St. Clair—” 

“If you think so much of him, why — why can’t you make up 
your mind and have him?” cried his aunt. “ It is not anything so 
much out of the way, when one knows all the circumstances; for 
you will not really have such a great fortune after all. Lucy, would 
it not be much better — ” 

Lucy shook her head; she did not feel herself capable of words, 
and Miss Southwood was about to begin another and an eloquent 
appeal, when there was once more a summons at the door, and some 
one was heard audibly coming upstairs. A minute after Mrs. Rush- 
ton appeared at the drawing-room door. She was flushed and pre- 
occupied, and came in quickly, not waiting for the maid; but when 
she saw Miss Southwood she made a marked and sudden pause. 

“ I beg your pardon. I thought I should find you alone, Miss 
Trevor, at this early hour.” 

“ I am just going,” Miss Southwood said; and she kissed Lucy 
affectionately, partly by way of blowing trumpets of defiance to the 
rival power. “ Don’t conclude about what we were speaking of 
till I see you again; be sure you wait till I see you again,” she said 
as she went away. Mrs. Rushton had not sat down, she was evi- 
dently full of some subject of importance. She scarcely waited 
till her predecessor had shut the door. 

“ I have come to say a few words to you which I fear will scarcely 
be pleasant, Miss Trevor,” she said. 

Lucy tried to smile; she brought forward her softest easy-chair 
with obsequious attention. She had something to make up to Ray- 
mond’s mother. “ I hope nothing has happened,” she said. 

“ I will not sit down, I am much obliged to you. No, nothing 
has happened, so far as I know. It is about yourself I wanted to 
speak. Miss Trevor, you afforded a spectacle to my party yesterday 
which I hope never to see repeated again. I warned you the other 
night that you were flirting—” 

Lucy’s countenance, which had been full of alarm, cleared a lit- 
tle, she even permitted herself to smile. “ Flirting?” she said. 

“ I don’t think it a smiling matter. You have no mother,” said 


352 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Mrs. Rushton, “and we are all sorry for you — in a measure, we are 
all very sorry for you. We know what the manner of fashionable 
circles are, at least of some fashionable circles. I have always said 
that to put you, with your antecedents, into the hands of a woman 
like Lady Randolph! But I have nothing to do with that, I wash 
my hands of that. The thing is that it will not do here.” 

Lucy said nothing. She looked at her new tormentor wistfully, 
begging for mercy. What had she done? 

“ Yesterday opened my eyes,” said Mrs. Rushton, with a heat 
and energy ^which flushed her cheeks. ‘ 4 1 have been trying to 
think you were all a nice girl should be. I have been thinking of 
you,” said the angry woman, with some sudden natural tears, “ as 
one of my own. Heaven knows that is what has been in my mind. 
A poor orphan, though she is so rich, that is what I have always 
said to myself — poor thing! I will try to be a mother to her.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Rushton, you have been very kind. I know it seems 
ungrateful,” cried Lucy, with answering tears of penitence, “ but if 
you will only think — what was I to do? — I don’t want to marry any 
one. And Mr. Raymond is — I had never thought — ’ ’ 

There was a momentary pause. Mrs. Rushton had a struggle 
with herself. Nature had sent her here in Raymond’s quarrel, eager 
to avenge him somehow, and her mind was torn with the desire to 
take his part openly, to declare herself on her boy’s side, to overthrow 
and punish the girl who had slighted him. But pride and prudence 
came, though tardily, to her assistance here. She stared at Lucy 
for a moment with the blank look which so often veils a supreme 
conflict. Then she said, with an air of surprise, “ Raymond? Do 
you mean my son? I can not see what he has to do with the ques- 
tion.” 

Lucy felt as a half- fainting' patient feels when the traditionary 
glass of cold water is dashed in her face. She came to herself with 
a little gasp of astonishment. What was it then? except in the 
matter of refusing Ray, her conscience was void of all offense. She 
looked at Mrs. Rushton with wonder in her wide open eyes. 

“ I do not know,” Mrs. Rushton continued, finding her ground 
more secure as she went on, “what you mean to insinuate about 
my boy. He is not one that will ever lead a girl too far. No, Lucy, 
that is a thing that will never happen. It is when one of your own 
town set appears that you show yourself in your true colors; but 
perhaps it is not your fault, perhaps Lady Randolph thinks that 
quite the right sort of behavior. I never attempt to fathom the con- 
duct of women of her class.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS TH EHGLAtfD. 


353 


At this Lucy began to feel an impulse if not of self-defense, yet 
of resistance on her friend s behalf. “ Please do not speak so of 
Lady Randolph,” she said, with mild firmness; “ if you are angry 
with me — I do not know why it is, but if you are angry I am very 
sorry, and you must say what you please of me— but Lady Ran- 
dolph! I think,” said Lucy, tears coming to her eyes, “ if I am 
not to trust Lady Randolph, I may as well give up altogether, for 
there seems no one who will stand by me, of all the people I know.” 

“ Oh, Lady Randolph will stand by you, never fear; so long as 
you keep your fortune, you are sure of Lady Randolph,” cried 
Mrs. Rushton, with vehemence. “But as for other friends, Miss 
Trevor, your behavior must be their guide.” 

“ Why do you call me Miss Trevor?” cried Lucy, her courage 
giving way; “what have I done? If it is Raymond that has set 
you against me, it is cruel. I have done nothing to make my 
friends give me up,” the poor girl cried, with mingled shame and 
indignation; for the suggestion of unfit behavior abashed Lucy, and 
yet, being driven to bay, she could not but make a little stand in 
her own defense. * 

“Raymond again!” cried Mrs. Rushton, with an angry laugh; 
“ why should you wish to mix up my son in it? It is not Raymond 
as I have said before, that would lead any girl to make an exhibi- 
tion of herself — but the moment you get with one of your own set! 
I call you Miss Trevor, because I am disappointed, bitterly disap- 
pointed in you. I thought you were a different girl altogether — 
nice and modest and gentle, and — but I have my innocent Emmie 
to think of, and I will not have her grow up with such an example 
before her eyes. Therefore, if you see a difference in me, you will 
know the cause of it. I have treated you like a child of my own. 

I have made parties for you, introduced you everywhere, and this 
is my reward. But it is always so; I ought to console myself with 
that; those we are kind to are exactly those that turn upon us and 
rend us. Oh, whal is that? are you setting a dog upon me? You 
ungrateful, ill-mannered — 

There was no dog; but Jock, unobserved by the visitor, had 
been there all the time, and as Mrs. Rushton grew vehement, his 
attention had been roused. He had raised himself on his elbows, 
listening with ears and eyes alike, and by this time his patience was 
exhausted; the child was speechless with childish fury. He took 
the easiest way that occurred to him of freeing Lucy. He seized 
the long folds of Mrs. Rushton’s train which lay near him in not 
ungraceful undulations, and winding his hands into it, made an 


354 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


effort to drag her to the door. The alarm with which she felt this 
mysterious tug, which very nearly overset her balance, got vent in 
a shriek which rang through the whole house. “ It is a mad dog!” 
she cried, with a rush for the door, carrying Jock along with her. 
But no mortal thread could stand such an appendage. Mrs. Rush- 
ton’s dress was slight in fabric, and gave way with a shrieking of 
stuff rent asunder, and stitches tom loose. Lucy flew to the rescue, 
catching her little champion in her arms with outcries of horror 
and apology, yet secret kisses of gratitude and consolation to the 
flushed and excited child. It was at this moment that Mrs. Ford, 
having put on her purple silk, sailed into the room, her pace scarcely 
accelerated by the cries she heard, for she owed it to herself to be 
dignified in the presence of strangers whatever happened. She 
paused a moment at the door, throwing up her hands. Then, “ For 
shame, Jock! for shame!” she cried, loudly, stamping her foot, 
while Lucy, kneeling down, kissing, and scolding, and crying in a 
breath, endeavored to unloose the little passionate hot hands. “ She 
should let Lucy alone!” cried Jock, with spasmodic fury. He 
would have held on like a dog for which his enemy took him, 
through any amount of beating. “ I do not wonder after the way 
in which he has been brought up,” cried Mrs. Rushton, panting 
and furious as she got free. 


CHAPTER XLm. 

THE CUP FULL. 

Jock was not allowed to come down to dinner that day, and Lucy, 
refusing to leave him, sat with the culprit on her knee, their arms 
clasped about each other, their hot cheeks touching. “Oh, if we 
could go away! if we only had a little hut anywhere, you and me, 
in the loneliest place, where we should never see any of these peo- 
ple more,” Lucy cried; and Jock, though he was still in a state of 
wild excitement, calmed down a little, and began to think of a deso- 
late island, that favorite fancy of childhood. “ I should not be so 
clever as Hazel was— for he was a fellow that knew everything; but 
couldn’t I build you a house, Lucy?” the little fellow said, his wet 
eyes lighting up at the thought. He had read “ Foul Play ” not 
long before. Jock was not fond of the modern novel; but he made 
an exception in favor o! Mr. Reade, as what boy of sense would 
not do? With this forlorn fancy they consoled themselves as they 
sat dinnerless, clinging to each other— a lonely pair. Mrs. Ford, 


THE GKEATEST HEIEESS IN ENGLAND, 


355 


half alarmed at the success of her punishment, which was so much 
greater than she expected, for, to do her justice, she wanted only a 
lawful submission, and not to deprive a little delicate boy of a meal, 
came upstairs several times to the door to ask if Jock would sub- 
mit; but he would not say he was sorry, which was what she re- 
quired. “ Why couldn’t she let my Lucy alone? I would do it 
again,” he said, turning a deaf ear to all Mrs. Ford’s moral ad- 
dresses. All this time Lucy held him close, kissing his little tear- 
wet cheeks, and crying over him, so that, perhaps, his firmness 
was not wonderful. “ You should not encourage him, Lucy,” said 
Mrs. Fcrd. “ Come down to your dinner. It is a shame to encour- 
age a little naughty boy; and you can’t go without your dinner.” 
“ If you had but one in all the world to stand up for you, only one, 
would you go and forsake him?” cried Lucy, with floods of hot 
tears. And then Mrs. Ford went down-stairs very uncomfortable, 
as are all enforcers of domestic discipline, when the culprits will 
not give way. Against this kind of resistance the very sternest of 
household despots fight in vain, and Mrs. Ford was not a household 
despot, but only an ignorant, well-meaning woman, driven to her 
wits’ end. If she were unkind now and then, it was not that she 
ever meant to be unkind. She grew more and more uncomfortable 
as time after time she returned beaten to the dinner- table down- 
stairs, which she, herself, could not take any pleasure in, because 
these two troublesome young persons were fasting above. 

This was a mournful meal in the house. Ford himself, satisfying 
his usual good appetite in the natural way, was fallen upon by his 
wife, and, so to speak, slaughtered at his own table. The dainty 
dishes she had prepared specially for Lucy were sent away un- 
touched, and the good woman herself eat nothing. She did noth- 
ing but talk all through that meal of Jock’s misdemeanor. “ And 
Lucy spoils him so. She will not listen to me. It is bad for the 
child — dreadfully bad for the child. He ought to be at school, 
knocking about among other boys. And instead of that she sits 
and cries and kisses him, and goes without her dinner. It’s enough 
to kill the child,” cried Mrs. Ford, “ at his age, and a delicate boy, 
to eat nothing all day.” 

“ Then why don’t you let him come down and have his dinner?” 
said Ford, his mouth full of a fugitive morsel. 

“Oh, you never — you never understand anything! Ami the 
one to ruin that child’s morals, and make him think he can do what 
he likes, for the sake of a dinner? Not till he gives in and says he is 
sorry t ’ : said Mrs. Ford, pushing her plate away with angry empha- 


356 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


sis; “ but it is Lucy that makes me unhappy,” she said; “ anybody 
— anything else for the sake of that boy.” 

And it can not be denied that little Jock, at least, heard the rat- 
tle of the plates and dishes as they were cleared away with a sink- 
ing of the heart; but he would not give in. Lucy was less moved 
by it. She had something of that contempt for dinners which is an 
attribute of the female mind, and she was worn with excitement, 
cast down, and discouraged in every way. She said to herself that 
she could not have swallowed anything; the mere suggestion seemed 
to bring a lump in her throat. She wanted to see nobody, to turn 
her face to the wall, to “give in” altogether. Lucy could not 
have told what vague mysterious despair was implied in the idea 
of ‘ ‘ giving in, ’ ’ but it seemed the end of all things, the lowest 
depth of downfall. Notwithstanding this wild desperation and de- 
sire to turn her back upon all the world, it was a very welcome in- 
terruption when Katie Russell knocked softly at the door, and came 
in with a subdued eagerness and haste which betrayed that she had 
something to tell. Katie was not like her usual self any more than 
Lucy was. There was a soft flush upon her face, an unusual ex. 
citement and brightness in her eyes. She came in rapidly, with an 
“ Oh, Lucy — ” then stopped short when she saw Jock, and the 
lamentable air of the little group still clinging close together, whose 
mournful intercourse she had interrupted. Katie burst forth into a 
little laugh of excitement. “ What’s the matter with you?” she 
said. Jock slid out of Lucy’s arms, and Lucy rose up from her 
chair at this question. They were glad enough to come to an end 
of the situation, though they had both made up their mind to ac- 
cept no comfort. And when Lucy had told the story, Katie’s amuse- 
ment and applause did her friend good in spite of herself. “ Bravo, 
Jock!” Katie cried, with another laugh, which her own personal 
excitement and need of utterance had no small share in; and she 
was so much delighted by Mrs. Rushton’s discomfiture that both sis- 
ter and brother began to feel more cheerful. “ Oh, how I should 
have liked to see her!” said Katie. And then her own affairs that 
were so urgent, rushed into her mind with a fresh suffusion of her 
face and kindling of her eyes. Lucy was not great in the art of read- 
ing looks, but she could see that there was something in Katie’s 
mind that was in the most urgent need of utterance— something 
fluttering on her very lips that had to be said. “ I have got free 
for the day,” she said, with a little quaver in her voice. “ Let us 
go somewhere or do something, Lucy, I can not stop still in one 
place. I have something to tell you—” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


357 


“ I saw it directly in your face— what is it? what is it?” Lucy 
said. But it was not till she had gone to her room to get her hat, 
where Katie followed her, that the revelation came. “ Will you 
have me for a relation?” the girl said, crossing her hands demurely, 
and making a little courtesy of pretended humility; and then nat- 
ural emotion regained its power, and Katie laughed, and cried, and 
told her story. ‘‘And you never guessed!” she said; “I thought 
you would know in a moment. Didn’t you notice anything even 
yesterday? Ah, I know why; you were thinking of your own 
affairs.” 

“ I was not thinking of any affairs,” said Lucy, with a sigh; “ I 
was tormented all day; but never mind — tell me. Philip! he has 
always seemed so stolid, so serious.” 

“ And isn’t this serious?” said Katie. “ Oh, you don’t half see 
all that it means. Fancy! that he should turn his back upon all 
the world, and choose me, a girl without a penny!” 

** But — all the world? I don’t think Philip had so much in his 
power. What did he turn his back upon? But I am very glad it 
|s you, ” Lucy said. Still her face was serious. She had not for- 
gotten, and she did not quite understand the scene of last night. 

Katie grew very serious, too. “ I want to speak to you, Lucy,” 
she said. “We are two girls who have always been fond of each 
other; we always said we would stand by each other when we grew 
up. Lucy, look here, if you ever thought of Philip— if you ever 
once thought of him — I would cut off my little finger rather than 
stand in his way!” 

Hot tears were in her eyes; but Lucy looked at her with serious 
surprise, wondering, yet not moved. “I don’t know what you 
mean,” she said. 

“ Oh, but you must know what I mean, Lucy! P( rhaps you are 
not clever; but everybody always said you had a great deal of sense. 
And you know you are the greatest prize that ever was. How can 
you help knowing? And Philip is one that you have known all 
your life. Oh, Lucy, tell me, tell me true! Don’t you think I 
would make a sacrifice for him? It would break my heart, ’ ’ cried 
the girl, “ but I would sacrifice myself and Bertie, too, and never 
think twice — for him! Answer me, answer me true — between you 
and me, that have always been fond of each other, Lucy!” cried 
Katie, seizing her hands with sudden vehemence, “ answer me as if 
we were two little girl at school. Did you ever think of Philip? 
Would you have had him if — if he had not liked me?” 

Lucy drew her hands away with an energy which was violence 


358 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


in her. “ I think you are all trying to drive me out of my senses. 
I! think of Philip or any one! I never did, I never will,” she cried, 
with sudden tears. “ I don't want to have any one, or to think of 
any one, as you say. Will you only let me alone, all you people? 
First one and then another; and not even pretending,” the poor 
girl cried, with sobs, “ that it is for me.” 

“I am not like that, Lucy,” Katie said, in mournful tones; for 
why should Lucy cry, she asked herself, if it were not that she had 
“ thought of ” Philip. ‘‘Iam fond of you, and I know you would 
make any one happy. It is not only for your money. Oh, I know, 
I know,” Katie cried; “ what a difference it would make to him if 
he married you! and what is pride between you and me? Only say 
you care for him the very least in the world — only say — Lucy,” 
cried Katie, solemnly, ‘‘if it was so, though it would break my 
heart, I would make poor Bertie take me off somewhere this very 
day, to New Zealand or somewhere, and not leave a word or a 
trace, and never see either of you more.” 

Lucy had recovered a little spirit during this last assault upon 
her. She had got to the lowest depth of humiliation, she thought, 
and rebounded. The emergency gave her a force that was not 
usual to her. ‘‘I once read a book like that,” she said; ‘‘a girl 
went away, because she thought another girl cared for the gentle- 
man. Don’t you think that would be pleasant for the other girl? 
to think that she had made such an exhibition of herself, and that 
the gentleman had been cheated into caring for her? I — I am sure 
I never made any exhibition of myself,” Lucy cried, with rising 
warmth. “ One is to me just like another. I am very willing to 
be friends if they will let me alone; but as for Philip! I am glad 
you like him,” she said, recovering her serenity with an effort. 
“Iam very glad you are going to marry him. And, Katie!” here 
a sudden thought flashed into the mind of the heiress. If it ever 
could be made to appear natural to give money away, surely here 
was the occasion. She clapped her hands suddenly, with an un- 
affected simple pleasure, which was all the more delightful that it 
was a flower plucked, so to speak, from the very edge of a preci- 
pice. “ They can not say anything against that,” she cried; “it 
will be only like a wedding present.” And satisfaction came back 
to Lucy’s heart. 

“ Oh, never mind about the wedding present — so long as you 
like it, Lucy — that is the best, ” cried the other; and then Katie’s 
confidences took the more usual form. “ Fancy, I have not seen 
him yet,” she said; “ I got the letter only this morning, and I an- 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


359 


swered it, you know. Don’t you think a girl should give an an- 
swer straight off, and not keep him in suspense? for I had always, 
always, you know, from the very beginning, from that night when 
he came in — don’t you recollect? Now I see you never can have 
thought of Philip, Lucy, for you don’t recollect a bit! It was a 
beautiful letter; but it was a funny letter too. He said he could 
not help himself. Oh, I understand it quite well! Of course he 
did not want, if he could have helped it, to marry a girl without a 
penny in the world.” 

“ Does that matter, when he is fond of you?” Lucy said. 

“Ah! it is only when you are awfully rich that you can afford 
to be so disinterested,” cried Katie. “ Naturally, he did not want 
to marry a girl with nothing. And you may say what you like, 
Lucy; but for a man to have a chance of you and like me the best! 
There, I will never say another word; but if it makes me vain can 
I help it? To choose me when he had the chance of you!” 

“He never had the chance of me,” cried Lucy, with returning 
indignation. “ What do you all take me for, I wonder? Am I like 
something in a raffle in a bazaar? Can people take tickets for me, 
and draw numbers, and every one have a chance? It is not like a 
friend to say so. And there is no one, if you fail me, Katie, no 
one that I can trust.” 

“You maj trust me, to my very last breath,” cried Katie, with 
indescribable favor. And Lucy felt, with a softening sensation of 
relief and comfort, that surely here was a stronghold opening for 
her; Katie and Philip. She could trust in them if in nobody else. 
Philip had been the one honest among all the people round her. 
He had loved somebody else, he had not been able to pretend that it 
was Lucy he loved. She thought of the scene of the previous night 
with an uneasy mixture of pleasure and pain. How strange that 
they should all think so much of this money, which to Lucy con- 
veyed so little comfort! But Philip had escaped the snare. And 
now she thought there could be no doubt that she had found a pair 
of friends whom she could trust. 

Jock all this time waited down-stairs; but he was not impatient. 
Jane, the house-maid, charged with a sandwich which Mrs. Ford 
herself had prepared, waylaid him on the landing, and Jock 
wanted small persuading. He was a boy who liked sandwiches; 
and to have his own way, and that too, was enough to reconcile him 
to a little waiting. He had just time to dispose of it while the girls 
lingered; and it was very good, and he felt all the happier. He 
sallied forth a little in advance, as was his habit when Lucy was 


360 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


not alone, his little nose in the air, his head in the clouds. He did 
not pay any attention to the secrets the others were whispering; 
why should he? At eight the superiority of sex is as acutely felt 
as at any other age. Jock was loyal to his sister through every fiber 
of his little being; still Lucy was only a girl when all was said. 

It was a beautiful day after the yesterday’s rain. The blue of 
the sky had a certain sharpness, as skies are apt to have when they 
have wept much; but the air was light and soft, relieved of its bur- 
den of moisture. It was Katie who was the directress of the little 
party, though the others were not aware of it. She led them 
through the streets till they reached a little ornamental park into 
which the High Street fell at one end. Then suddenly in a mo- 
ment, Katie gave her friend’s arm a sudden pressure. “ Oh, 
Lucy,” she ciied, “ have a little feeling for him : you have so much 
for me, have a little for him,” and disengaging herself, she ran on 
and seized Jock’s hand, who was marching serenely in front. 
Lucy, astonished, paused for a moment, not knowing how to under- 
stand this sudden desertion, and found her hand in the hand of 
Bertie Russell, who had appeared she could not tell from whence. 

“ This is good fortune indeed,” he said; “ what a happy chance 
for me that you should take your walk here!” 

Lucy felt her heart flutter like a bird fallen into a snare. It was 
not that she was frightened for Bertie Russell, but it was that she 
had been betrayed in the very tenderness of her trust. “ Katie 
brought us,” she said gravely. Katie, who was stimulating Jock 
to a race, had got almost out of hearing, and the other two were 
left significantly alone. Lucy felt her heart sink: was there another 
scene like that of yesterday to be gone through again? 

“ Katie is perhaps more kind to me than she is to you, Miss Tre- 
vor,” said Bertie; “ she knew I wanted to tell you — various things, 
and she did not realize, perhaps, that it would be so disagreeable to 
you.” 

This troubled Lucy in her sensitive dislike to give pain. “ Oh,” 
she said, “ Mr. Bertie, indeed I did not mean to be rude.” 

“You could not be rude,” he said, with an audible sigh. 
“ Those who have not the gift to please have only themselves to 
blame. I wanted to call, but your old lady does not like me, Miss 
Trevor. I heard this morning from Mrs. Berry-Montagu. Did I 
tell you she had taken me up? She has been in Scotland in her 
husband’s shooting- quarters, and she says Sir Thomas Randolph is 
off to the East again.” 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EKGLAHD. 


361 


“ To the East!” Lucy said: what did it mean? for a moment the 
sight seemed to go out of her eyes, the world to swim round her. 
A great giddiness came over her; was she going to be ill? she did 
not understand what it was. 

“ Yes,” said Bertie’s voice, quite unconcerned; and, even in the 
midst of this wonderful mist and darkness, it was a consolation to 
her that he did not seem to perceive her condition. “ When that 
mania of travel seizes a man there is no fighting against it. Mrs. 
Montagu says that Lady Randolph is in despair.” 

“ I should think she will not like it,” Lucy said. The light was 
beginning slowly to come back. She saw the path under her feet, 
and the shrubs that stood on either hand, and Bertie by her side 
whom she had been so alarmed to see, but whom she thought noth- 
ing of now. What did it mean? she was too much confused and 
confounded in all her faculties to be able to tell. And she asked no 
questions. That was why Sir Tom had not written, had not taken 
any notice. Lucy had thought herself very wretched, abandoned 
by heaven and earth this morning, but how different were her sen- 
sations now! An invisible prop had been taken away, which had 
held her up without her own knowledge. She felt herself sink 
down to the very dust, her limbs and her courage failing alike. 
And all the time Bertie’s voice went on. 

“ I have been wandering about the town renewing my acquaint- 
ance with it, and making notes. May I tell you about what I am 
going to do, Miss Trevor? Perhaps it will only bore you? Well, if 
you will let me — I am about beginning my second book; and your 
advice did so much for me in the first. I know how much of my 
success I owe to you.” 

“ Oh, no, no, Mr. Bertie,” said Lucy, “ you only say so. I never 
gave you any advice, you don’t owe anything to me.” 

“ Perhaps not,” he said, with a smile. ” Perhaps the Madonna 
on the niast does not save the poor Italian fisherman from the 
storm. You may think, if you are a severe Protestant, that she has 
nothing to do with it, but he kneels down and thanks our lady 
when he gets on shore, and you must let me thank the saint of my 
invocation too.” 

Lucy made no reply. She did not understand what lie meant by 
all these fine words, and if she had understood she did not care. 
What did it matter? His voice was not much more to her than the 
organ playing popular tunes in the street beyond. The two sounds 
made a sort of half- ludicrous concert to her ears. She heard them 
and heard them not, and went on in a maze, still giddy, not know- 


362 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


ing where she was going, keeping very still to command herself. 
Going to the East! all that, she thought, had been over. He had 
gone to Scotland, from whence he was to write, and she to him, if 
she wanted advice or anything! And he had written to her, but 
not for a long time. And now he was going away again, going 
away perhaps forever. This was what was going on in Lucy’s 
mind while Bertie spoke. She had no feeling about Bertie now, or 
about the betrayal of her trust by his sister. What did it matter? 
Sir Tom was going — going to the East. Sometimes she felt dis- 
posed to grasp at Bertie’s arm to steady herself, and sometimes 
there came over her an almost irrestrainable impulse to break in, to 
say, “ To the East! do you mean that he is really, really going to 
the East?’ It was only instinct that saved her, not anything bet- 
ter. When the words came to her lips, she became vaguely con- 
scious that he was talking about something else. 

Bertie, on his part, was too much occupied with his own idea to 
perceive that Lucy was preoccupied also. He thought indeed that 
she was listening to him with a sort of interested absorption, un- 
resistingly — which, indeed, was true enough. Katie and Jock sped 
on before, leaving him full space and leisure for his suit. She was 
altogether at his mercy, walking downcast by nis side, listening 
timidly, too shy to make any reply. It flashed across his mind that 
it was just thus that he would describe a girl who was going to 
yield and make her lover happy — making him happy. Yes, there 
could be no doubt of that; she would make him happy, as very few 
had it in their power to do. The bliss Lucy could bestow would 
be substantial bliss. What unappreciated efforts Bertie made! the 
hero of a novel was never more eloquent. He compared Lucy to 
all manner of fine things. And she heard him, and heard him not. 
It was very hard upon Bertie. But when, beginning to feel dis- 
couraged by her silence, he went back upon the recollections of her 
life in Grosvenor Street, Lucy woke up from her abstraction. Even 
Mrs. Berry-Montagu restored her interest. “ May I send a message 
from you when I write to her?” he said. “ She is always inquiring 
after you. There are none of your acquaintances that do not take 
an interest in you — unless, perhaps it might be an old man about 
town, like Sir Tom.” 

“Sir Thomas is always kind— there is no one so kind,” cried 
Lucy, with a little excitement; “if you say he does not take any 
interest, it is because you don't know.” 

‘ Oh, I did not mean any harm; but pardon me if I can not bear 
to see a man like Sir Tom come near you, Miss Trevor. People 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IH EHGLAHD. 


363 


show their feelings in different ways. Mine — you don’t much care 
to hear about mine — take an old-fashioned form. There are people 
who are not worthy to touch the hem of your dress.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Russell. Sir Tom is better, 
far better, than most of the people I know; and as for me, I am 
not sacred, I don’t know why any one should think of the hem of 
my dress.” 

“ But you are sacred to me,” said Bertie, feeling that the mo- 
ment was come. “ Pardon me if I go too far. But what else can a 
man say when he has put himself under you as his saint, as his 
guiding star, since ever he began to be worth anything; that is only 
since I knew you, Lucy. Of course I know I am not half nor a 
quarter good enough for you. But ever since you began to come 
to Hampstead you know what you have been to me; you have in- 
spired me, you have made me what I am. You thought, or the Ran- 
dolphs thought, that it was presumption to put your name upon my 
book—” 

“ Oh, Mr. Bertie, why do you bring that up again? it is all over 
and past. You made people talk of me and laugh at me, and put 
me in the papers. It was dreadful! but it is all over, and I don’t 
want to hear of it any more.” 

“ It was the best I had,” said Bertie, with not unnatural indigna- 
tion. “ It was all I had, and queens have not scorned such offer- 
ings; but, if you do not care for that, you might care for a man’s 
devotion, Lucy— you might care for a — ’ * 

“ Oh, Mr. Bertie, don’t, please don’t say any more.” 

“ I know how to take an answer,” he said; “ I won’t persecute 
you as that cub did yesterday; but I must know whether you mean 
it really — whether you know what 1 mean Lucy — you must let me 
call you so just once more — is it only shyness? are you frightened? 
don’t you understand? or do you know that, when I offered my 
book to you, 1 offered, like all the poets, my heart, my life, my — ’ ’ 

“Lucy,” said Jock, suddenly rushing upon her, rushing be- 
tween them and pushing, with the mere force of his coming, the 
impassioned suitor away, “ Katie has met Philip, and they don’t 
want me. What are you doing, talking so long? Philip looks so 
queer, I don’t know what is the matter with him. And I want to 
go home. I hate a walk like this — there is no fun in it. And I 
want to go home; come!” cried the child, hanging on to her skirts. 
Bertie looked at him with a vindictive stare of rage and disappoint- 
ment. There was not another word to say. 


364 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

WHEN THE NIGHT’S DARKEST IT’S NEAREST THE DAWNING. 

Not a word could Lucy say all the way home. She was flushed 
and agitated, her hand burning, which grasped Jock’s, her eyes 
dim with moisture. When she got home she made no reply to Mrs. 
Ford, who came out to meet her; but, dropping Jock’s hand, ran 
upstairs to the quiet of that still, pink sitting-room, where the 
‘ ' Heroes ” still lay open on the rug, and her chair stood as she 
had thrust it back. The afternoon was fading into twilight, the 
lamps were lighted outside, throwing a strange one-sided sort of 
chilly illumination into the room, though mingled with the day- 
light. Lucy shut the door behind her, as if it had been the door of 
a hermitage. No one would come to disturb her there, unless it 
might be Mrs. Ford, to persuade her to go down to tea How 
could Lucy go and sit at the homely table, and listen to all the pot 
terings of the pair, over their bread and butter? She could not do 
it. Agitation had driven away all trace of appetite; she wanted 
nothing, she thought, but to be let alone. She sat down upon the 
sofa, and gazed out wistfully at the bit of blue sky that appeared 
between the white curtains. There was not so much as that bit of 
blue sky in all Lucy’s world. Not one true to her, not one who 
did not see something in her quite different from herself. Her 
other suitors had startled Lucy; but this last application for her 
love had driven her to bay. She did injustice to poor Bertie in the 
vehemence of her feelings. Though he had spoken in high-flown 
language, he was not in reality worse than the others, nor had he a 
worse meaning. They all of them had known that Lucy was the 
most desirable thing within their reach. They had recognized with 
the truest sincerity that she could make them happy, that no one 
could make them so happy; they had aspired to her with all the 
fervor of heartfelt sentiment; and Bertie had not been behind the 
others in this very earnest and unquestionable feeling. Why then 
should he have made her so angry— -he, and not the others? She 
could not tell; but she came in, feeling a universal sickening of dis- 
trust, which took all the heart out of her. She sat down dismally upon 
her pink sofa. Nobody to trust to. What fate in the world could 
be so terrible? The cold gleaming of the lamps outside were a kind 
Of symbol of all her life had to sustain it; faint reflections of the 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


365 


outside light of the world hut no warmth of a household lamp or 
hearth within. She sat down forlorn, and began to cry. “ No- 
body, nobody!” said poor Lucy. She did her best to survey the 
situation calmly, dismal as it was. What was she to do? All her 
friends had forsaken her; but she had Jock left, and those duties 
which her father had trusted to her hands. She must go on with 
her trust whatever happened. She kept hold of a kind of reality in 
her life, by grasping at this resolution. Yes, she would do her 
duty; whoever failed she would hold on, she would do what her 
father had said. It was still something that was left in life. 

It seemed to Lucy, all at once, as if a new light had come upon 
this duty. It was in love to her as well as in justice to others that 
her father had charged her to give it back. Oh, if it could all be 
given back — got rid of, her life delivered from it, and she herself 
left free like other girls! Lucy’s sky seemed to her all gloomy and 
charged with clouds of wealth, which had risen out of the earth, 
and only by dispersion to earth again would leave her free. She 
understood what her father meant — rain to relieve the clouds, tears 
to relieve the heat in her forehead, the gasp in her throat. But 
at present the clouds were hanging suspended over her, hiding all 
the blueness of the heavens, and her tears were few and hot, not 
enough to relieve either head or heart. Nobody faithful — not one! 
the women conspiring, even Katie, the men paying false court, mak- 
ing false professions, and every one maligning the other, accusing 
the others of that falsehood which they knew to be in themselves. 
‘‘Not one,” she repeated to herself, “not one;” and then aery 
was forced out of Lucy’s poor little wrung heart. “ Not even Sir 
Tom!” she said aloud, with a sudden torrent of tears. Was this, 
though she did not know it, the worst of all? Certainly the name 
opened those flood-gates against which her passion of wounded 
feeling had been straining; her tears came in a violent thunder- 
shower. “ Not even Sir Tom!” It was the hardest of all. 

Something stirred in the dimness behind her. She had taken no 
notice of anything in the room when she came in, blind with those 
tears which she was not able to shed until she found that talisman. 
Some one seemed to make a step forward. Was she then not 
alone? or was it her imagination only which made her heart jump? 
No, for Lucy’s imagination never went so far as this. It could not 
have created the voice which said, with that familiar tone, “ What 
has Sir Tom done?” with a touch of emotion and a little touch of 
laughter in it, just over her head as she sat and sobbed. The sud- 
den cry with which Lucy replied told all her little secret, even to 


366 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


herself She got up and turned round, transformed, her innocent 
lips apart, her eyes all wet and blinded, yet seeing — But what she 
saw was not very clear, a big shadow, a something that was very 
real, not false at all, a figure that somehow— why? Lucy could not 
tell— put the world right again, and stopped the giddiness, and 
made the ground solid under her feet. She put out her hands, yet 
more in meaning than in action, half groping, half appealing. 

“ Who is it? is it you ?” she said. 

“Lucy, what has Sir Tom done to make you cry?” he asked, 
taking her hands into his. Was it possible that she did not feel 
any longer this most poignant stab of all? She could not in the 
least recollect what it was. She thought of it no more. It sailed 
away from her firmament as a cloud sails on a steady breeze. 

“ Oh, I am so glad you have come home,” she cried. 

Sir Tom was touched almost to tears. No one could see it, but 
he felt the moisture steal into the corners of his eyes. This was not 
a congenial place for him, this bourgeois room, nor had this little 
girl, in her simplicity, any right to greet him so. And Sir Thomas 
had by no means made up his mind, when he came to see his aunt's 
vrotegee, notwithstanding her heiress- ship, that he was going to 
give up his freedom and independence, and subject himself to ad 
manner of vulgar comments for her sake. But these words sealed 
his fate. He could no more have resisted their modest, simple ap- 
peal, so unconscious as it was, than he could have denied his own 
nature. He did what he had done when he left her, but with a 
very different meaning; he stooped over her and kissed her se 
riously on the forehead; he had done it half paternally, half in jest, 
when he went away. 

“ Yes, my dear, I have come home,” with a little quiver in his 
voice, Sir Thomas said; and after an interval, “ I think my little 
Lucy must have missed me. What is the matter? who has been 
vexing you? and even Sir Tom; did I do something amiss too?” 

“We will speak of that after,” Lucy said, with a relief which 
was beyond all comprehension. She could talk again, her tongue 
was loosened and her heart opened. She had not been able to con- 
fide in any one for so long, and now all at once some door seemed 
opened, some lock undone. ‘ * It does not seem anything now you 
are here. I am sure it was right, quite right,” she cried, with a 
sob and a laugh together. “I knew underneath that it must be 
right all the time.” 

Sir Tom did not insist upon knowing what it was; he made her 
Sit down, and placed himself by her, still holding her hands. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


367 


“But something has been wrong,’’ he said. “ My little girl is 
not in such trouble without some cause. Mrs. Ford tells me there 
was a disturbance this morning, and that Jock was naughty, and 
you went out without any dinner. Come, tell me — you can trust in 
me.’’ 

Had she not heard over and over again that he was not to be 
trusted? Had she not believed, with the deepest sting of all, that 
Sir Tom had failed her? Lucy did not remember. “ Oh, yes,” she 
said, from the bottom of her heart. It seemed so easy to tell every- 
thing now. And then the whole pent-up stream poured forth. The 
trouble of the morning could not be disclosed without leading to 
all the rest. Sometimes she cried as she spoke, sometimes almost 
laughed, the fact that he was there taking all the sting out of her 
troubles. And as for Sir Tom, though there was sometimes a 
gleam of indignation in him, he felt more disposed to laughter than 
to tears. Lucy’s troubles were very simple and transparent to him; 
she might have known that her fortune would tempt everybody — 
though the fact that she had not known, and that even proofs had 
not convinced her, was the thing which most profoundly touched 
Sir Tom’s, experienced heart. 

“You have had a pretty set of guardians,” he said; “ these are 
all people that have had the charge of you, Lucy?” He did not at 
the moment recollect that Lady Randolph had the charge of her 
also, and had instantly, from the ends of the world, summoned 
himself. Then he said, “ Lucy, listen to me; this is the sort of thing 
you will be subject to, I fear, wherever you go; and I don’t know 
what you will think of me when you hear what I am going to say. 
I know you have a grievance against me which you are to tell me 
by and by — ” 

“No, oh, no,” cried Lucy fervently; “ I know now it must have 
been a mistake.” 

He smiled, but the smile was not that of mere triumph. He was 
old enough to be touched by his own unexpected success, to be 
grateful to the young creature who had resisted all other claims 
upon her regard, to give her heart so unreservedly to him; and 
there was even more than this, a something which, at the moment, 
was very like love, which probably was the most passionate senti 
ment he was likely to entertain now, after all his experiences, for 
any one. He was “ very fond of ” Lucy, lie understood her sim- 
ple goodness, and regarded it with that soft, fraternal enthusiasm 
which a beloved child excites in us; and he was grateful to her, 
and deeply touched by her choice of himself, a choice of which he 


368 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


could have very little doubt. “ And you have heard a great deal 
of harm of me— all these good people have said something. They 
have said Tom Randolph was not a man to be your friend.” 

“ I have not believed them,” said Lucy. “ I know you better. 
I have not believed a word.” 

“ But you might have believed, Lucy. You must listen to me 
now, my dear. I have not been a good man, as you give me credit 
for being. I can not say of myself that I am fit to be the compan- 
ion of a young, pure, good girl.” 

“Oh, SirToml” Lucy cried in indignant protestation. Words 
would not serve her to say more. 

“ Yes,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “ It is quite Irue, 
I who know myself best confess it to you, but still there is a little 
truth left in me. I am going to enter the lists with all these others. 
Lucy. I am going to ask you to set yourself free from all of them 
by marrying me. ” 

“ Marrying— you, Sir Tom!” 

“Yes, me. People will say I am a fortune-hunter like the rest. '* 

Lucy could not bear even this censure suggested by himself. She 
had been looking at him seriously all the time, showing her emo- 
tion only by the changing color of her face, which, indeed, it was 
not very easy to see. Now she made a hasty movement of impa- 
tiance, stamping her foot upon the ground. “No!” she said. 
“No! they would not dare to say that. It would not be true.” 

“ It would be true so far that, if you were a little girl without 
any fortune, I should not dare to ask you to marry me, for I am a 
poor man; but not any worse than that. Will you marry me, 
Lucy?” Sir Thomas said. He let her hands go free, and held out 
his own. He was not afraid like the others. It can not even be 
said that he had much doubt what the answer would be 

Lucy had not shrunk from him, nor shown any appearance of 
timidity. She sat quite quietly looking at him, her eyes showing 
through the gathering twilight, but not much else. There was a 
little quiver about her mouth, but that did not show. 

“ Must I be married at all?” she said, in a very low voice. 

This chilled Sir Thomas a little, for he had expected a much 
warmer reply. He had thought it possible that she would fling 
herself upon his breast, and receive his proposal with the same 
soft enthusiasm with which she had welcomed his coming. He 
forgot how young she was, how cliild-like, and how serious and 
dutiful in every new step she had to take. 

“ Yes,” he said, with a little jar in his voice, “ unless you are 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 369 

always to be running the gantlet through a string of suitors. You 
like me, Lucy?” 

“ Oh, Sir Tom, yes!” 

“ And I—” he stopped the other words on his own lips; he would 
be honest and no more; he would not say love, which indeed was a 
word he knew he had soiled by ignoble use, and employed ere now 
in a very different sense. “ And I,” he said, “ am very fond of 
you.” 

There was a pause. He never could have thought he would have 
felt so anxious, or that his heart would have beaten as it was beat- 
ing. Through the twilight he could see Lucy’s serious eyes — not 
stars, or anything superfluous — honest, tranquil, with a little curve 
of thought over each brow, looking at him. She was anxious too. 
At last she said, with a soft sigh, “ I wish, I wish I knew — ” 

“ What Lucy?” 

“What is right,” she said, with a little hurrying and faltering 
of the words, “ what papa would have liked. It is so hard to tell. 
He left me a great many instructions for different things, but not a 
word, not a word about this.” 

“ In this, you may be sure, he wished your heart to be your 
guide,” said Sir Thomas, “ and so, even if you decide against me, 
do I—” 

“ How could I decide against you, Sir Tom?” she said, with a 
soft reproach. “Iam thinking, only thinking, what is right.” 

What was Sir Thomas to do? he began to feel that his position 
was almost ludicrous, sitting here, suspended upon Lucy’s breath, 
waiting for her answer. This was not the triumphant position 
which he had occupied ten minutes ago, when he felt himself to be 
the deliverer, coming with acclamations to set everything right. 
Whether to be very angry and annoyed, or to laugh at this curious 
turning of the tables — to be patient and "wait her pleasure, or to be- 
tray the half-provoked, half-amused impatience he began to feel— 
he did not know. 

The matter was decided in a way as unlooked for as was the 
crisis itself. Suddenly, without any warning, the door bounced 
open, and Mrs. Ford stood in the door-way, in a dark vacancy, 
which showed her darker substance like a drawing in sepia. 
“Lucy,” she said solemnly, “do you mean to starve yourself to 
death, all to spite me? I have not had a moment’s peace all day 
since you went out without your dinner. Sir Thomas Randolph, if 
you have got any influence with her, make her come down to her 
tea.” 


370 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ I will, Mrs. Ford,” he said. 

“ There’s a roast partridge,” said Mrs. Ford, with real emotion. 
*■ Jock, bless him, has eat up the other. Oh, Lucy, if you do not. 
want to make me wretched, come dowm to your tea!” 

“Iam coming,” said Lucy. She rose up, and so did her com- 
panion — Mrs. Ford in the door- way looking on, not seeing anything 
but the two shadows, yet wondering and troubled in her mind to 
think of the neglect which had left them there without any lights. 
“ I will give it to that Lizzie,” said Mrs. Ford internally; but there 
was something in the air which she did not understand, which 
kept her silent in spite of herself. 

Then Lucy put her hand into Sir Thomas’s hand, which was 
no longer held out for' it. “ If you think it is the best,” she said, 
very low, in her serious voice, ' * you have more sense than I have. 
Tell me what to do. Do you think it is the best?” 

Sir Thomas had been confused by the strange and unexpected 
position; he had been prepared for an easy triumph, and at the 
moment of coming it had eluded him; and when he had almost 
made up his mind to the reveise, here was another surprise and 
change. But Lucy’s voice again touched a deeper chord than he 
was conscious of. He was affected beyond description by the trust 
she placed in him. He took the hand she gave him within his 
own. “ Lucy!” he cried, with a thrill of passionate feeling in his 
voice, “ as God shall judge between us, I believe it is the best; but 
not, my dear, unless you feel that it will be happy for you.” 

“Oh!” cried Lucy, with a soft breath of ease and content which 
scarcely seemed to form words, yet shaped into them, “ happy! but 
it was not that I was thinking of,” she said. 

He drew her hand within his arm. It was triumph after all, but 
of a kind original, surprising, with a novelty in it that -went to his 
heart, touching all that was tender in him. He led her down stairs 
into Mrs. Ford’s parlor, with his mind in a confusion of sympathy 
and respect and pleasure, and carved her partridge for her, and eat 
half of it with a sacramental solemnity, and a laugh in his eyes, 
which were glistening and dewy. “ You see,” he said, addressing 
the mistress of the house, who looked on somewhat grimly, “ it k 
not because I am greedy, but because she will not eat without com- 
pany. She wants company. She does not care for the goc4 things 
you get for her, unless you will share them too.” 

“I declare!” cried Mrs. Ford, “ I never thought of that before. 
Lucy, is it true?” 

“It is quite true,” said Sir Thomas gravely, with always the 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 371 


laugh in his eyes. ' ‘ She cares for nothing unless she can share it. 
Has she eaten up her half honestly? You see I know how to man* 
age her. Will you let me marry her, Mrs. Ford?” 

“ Sir Thomas!” cried the pair in consternation, in one voice. 
He had come so opportunely to their assistance that they had quite 
forgotten he was a wolf in the fold. Ford thrust up his spectacles 
off his forehead, and let the evening paper (which had come in Sir 
Thomas’s pocket) drop from his hands, and as for Mrs. Ford she 
gasped for breath. 

But the two at the table took it very quietly. Lucy looked up 
with eyes more bright than her eyes had ever been before, and a 
color which was very becoming, which made her almost beautiful; 
and Sir Thomas (who certainly was a real gentleman, with no pride 
about him) comforted them with friendly looks, without the slight- 
est appearance of being ashamed of himself. “Yes,” he said. 
“ We both think it will answer so far as we are concerned. You 
are her oldest friends. Will you let me marry her, Mrs. Ford?” 

The question was answered in a way nobody expected. There 
raised itself suddenly up to the table a small head supported upon 
two elbows, rising from no one knew t where. “ Sir Tom was the 
one I always wanted, ’ ’ said little Jock. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

THE GUARDIANS. 

Sir Thomas Randolph got up next morning with his usual 
good spirits a little heightened by something, he could not imme- 
diately recollect what. The doubt lasted only for a moment, but, 
perhaps, his happiness was not so instantaneously present to his 
mind as a new vexation would have been. But on his second wak- 
ing moment, he jumped up from his bed and laughed. The red 
October sunshine was shining into his room; he went and looked 
out from his window upon the noble trees in his park, stretching 
far away in ruddy masses, all golden and red with the frosty, not 
fiery, finger (pardon, dear poet!) of autumn. As far as he could 
see (and a great deal further) the land was his; but oh, poor acres! 
how heavy with mortgages! how stiff with borrowings! heavier and 
stiffer than the native clay, of which there was too much about 
Farafield; but that was all over, this red, russet October morning; 
the house had a mistress, and the land was free. Was it a wrong to 


372 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


Lucy that he thought of this so soon? He laughed, at first, at the 
astounding position in which he suddenly recollected himself to 
stand, as betrothed man, a happy and successful lover; and then 
there suddenly rushed into his mind the idea that the change would 
make him entirely independent, safe from all duns, free of all 
creditors, his own master on his own land. When, however, he 
went down-stairs and eat his solitary breakfast near the fire in the 
great paneled room, with its old tapestries and family portraits, 
the noblest room in the county, though as good as shut up for so 
many years, there came quite sweetly and delightfully into Sir 
Tom’s mind the idea, not of the hospitalities which now were possi- 
ble, but of a little serious countenance, with two mild blue eyes, 
following his looks with a little strain of intelligence, not quite, 
quite sure all at once of his meaning, but always sure that he was 
right, and soon finding out what he meant, and lighting up with 
understanding all the more pleasant for the first surprise of un- 
certainty. When this little vision glanced across him, he put down 
his newspaper, which he had taken up mechanically, and smiled at 
it over the table. “Give me some tea, Lucy,” he said, with an 
amused, exhilarated, almost excited realization of what was going 
to be. “I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas?” said the solemn butler, 
just coming in; and then, will it be believed? Sir Tom, who had 
knocked about the world for so many years, Sir Tom, who had 
touched the borders of middle age, and gone through no small 
amount of experiences — blushed! He laughed afterward and re- 
sumed his paper; but that there had come over, between his big 
mustache and his quite unthinned and plentiful locks, a delightful 
youthful suffusion of warmth and color, it was impossible to deny. 
He felt it quite necessary to sound a trumpet forthwith, so much 
tickled was he with his own confusion, and pleased with himself. 
“ Williams, I am going to be married,” he said. Williams was a 
man who had been all over the world with his master, who had 
himself gone through various transformations, had been a saucy 
valet, and an adventurer, and a dignified family servant by turns, 
and was not a man to be surprised at anything; but he stopped 
short in the middle of the room, and said, “ Indeed, Sir Thomas!” 
in a tone more like bewilderment than any that ever had been heard 
from him before. “ Did you ever hear such a joke?” said the mas- 
ter, thinking of his own blush, that unparalleled circumstance; 
and “ It do indeed, Sir Thomas,” Mr. Williams gravely replied. 

However, after this serious revelation there were more serious 
matters at hand. Sir Thomas had decided that he would go to Mr, 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


373 


Rushton in the morning, who was the real guardian, and with 
whom in any case he would have to do; whether it would be neces- 
sary in everything to observe the ordinances of the will, which 
Lucy, he knew, had declared her determination to stand by, and 
ask the consent of all that board of guardians to whom old Trevor 
had given the power of hampering and hindering Lucy’s marriage, 
was a thing he had not made up. his mind upon; but with Mr. 
Rushton, at least, he must have to do. He drove into Farafield 
through the keen air of the bright, chill, sunshiny morning with 
great courage and confidence. It might be said that he was fortune- 
hunting too; but if he would receive a certain advantage from the 
heiress, it was certain that he had something to offer on his side 
which no woman would despise. To put her at the head of the 
noblest old house and the most notable family in the county was a 
balance on his side which made Lucy’s advantage no more than 
was desirable. Mr. Rushton, however, presented the air of a man 
perturbed and angry when Sir Thomas entered his office. A letter 
was lying on the table before him, the sight of which, it must be 
allowed, somewhat discomposed even Sir Tom. Was it Lucy’s 
handwriting? Had she taken it upon her to be the first to commu- 
nicate to her legal guardian the change in her fortunes which had 
happened? If this had been the case, no doubt Sir Tom would .have 
adapted himself to it, and concluded by finding it quite natural 
and becoming that a girl in so exceptional a position should take 
this upon herself. But in the meantime he felt just a litlle annoyed 
and disconcerted too. 

“ I see you are busy,” Sir Thomas said. 

“ No — not so much busy — I am always busy at this hour, and 
shall be, I hope, as long as my strength lasts; but not more than usual 
The truth is,” said Mr. Rushton, with a suppressed snarl, “ I'm 
provoked — and not much wonder if you knew all.” 

Sir Thomas looked at the open letter in spite of himself. “ May 
I ask if I have anything to do with your annoyance?” he said. 

“You!” the lawyer opened his eyes wide, then laughed angrily. 

“ No, I don’t suppose it can be you. She is not quite so silly as 
that.” 

“ Silly!” echoed Sir Thomas; “ perhaps it will be better to tell 
you at once without any circumlocution what my errand is. I have 
come to tell you, Rushton, a piece of news which may surprise you 
— that I have made an offer to Miss Trevor, and that she has ac- 
cepted me.” 

Mr. Rushton said not a word; he was altogether taken aback. 


374 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


He stood with liis mouth open, and his eyebrows forming large semi- 
circles over his eyes, and stared at Sir Thomas without a word. 

“This naturally,” said the hero of the occasion, with a laugh, 
“ makes it — not quite safe — to criticise Miss Trevor to me.” 

“Accepted — you /” He could scarcely get his breath, so be- 
wildered was he. “ Do you mean to say that you — want to marry 
Lucy Trevor!” Mr. Rushton said. 

“Yes, in common with various other people,” said Sir Thomas, 
“ some of whom you may have heard of; but the specialty in my 
case, is that she has accepted me. I thought it my duty to come to 
you at once as Miss Trevor’s guardian. I hope you do not object 
to me — you have known me long enough — as a suitor for her. I 
am rather old for her, perhaps, but otherwise I think — ” 

“ Accepted you!” the lawyer repeated; and then he gave utter- 
ance to a hard laugh. “ She is young, but she is a cool one,” he 
said. “ Accepts you one minute, and writes to me to make a pro- 
vision for an old lover, I suppose. Probably some one she has cast 
off for your sake— the minx! She is a cool one,” Mr. Rushton 
said. 

“ You forgot — what I have this minute told you, Rushton.” 

“No, pardon me, I don’t iorget,” said Lucy’s guardian. “ She 
is only a girl as you may say, but it seems to me she is fooling us 
all. Look at that— read that,” he said, tossing the open letter at Sir 
Thomas, who, for his part, took it — how could he help it? with a 
little tremble of apprehension. This is what he read : 

“ Dear Mr. Rushton, — I think I have found some one else that 
is all that is required by papa’s will. This time it is a gentleman, 
and as he is not married, and has no children, it will not require so 
much. He is very clever, and has a good profession; but his health 
is not good, and he wants rest. This is just what papa would 
have wished, don’t you think so? Two or three thousand pounds 
would do, I think — and I will tell you everything about it and ex- 
plain all, if you will come to me, or if I can go and see you. I have 
written to Mr. Chervil too. 

“ Sincerely yours, Lucy Trevor.” 

“ Did you ever hear anything like it?” said the lawyer, exasper- 
ated. “ If there is still time, you will thank me for letting you 
know, Sir Thomas. Who can tell who this person is? and the mo- 
ment you appear, no doubt much better worth the trouble — ” 

“Must I again remind you of what I said?” Sir Thomas re- 
peated. “ This has reference, so far as I can see, to a condition of 
the father’s will, which Miss Trevor has very much in her mind ” 

“ She has told you of it? There never was so mad a proviso. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


375 


They have * a bee in their bonnet,’ as the Scotch say. And I’ve 
got to stand by and see a fine fortune scattered to the winds! That 
girl will drive me mad. I lose my head altogether when I think of 
her. The old man was always an eccentric, and he couldn’t take the 
money with him. You know a man doesn’t feel it, what he does 
by his will; but that any living creature, in their senses, should 
throw away good money! I believe that girl will drive me mad. ”, 

“ A la bonne heure ,” said Sir Thomas, “ you have nothing to do 
but transfer your charge to me.” 

“ Ah! you’ll put a stop to it? I see. A husband can do a great 
many things; that is what I thought, that was my idea when — 
There are a great many things to be taken into consideration, Sir 
Thomas,” Mr. Rushton said, recovering his self-possession. “ Your 
proposal is one to be treated respectfully, but nevertheless in my 
ward’s interest — ” 

“ I think those interests have been considerably risked already,” • 
said Sir Thomas, gravely. “ I do not think they are safe here; she 
is with people who do not know how to take care of her.” 

“ According to the will, Sir Thomas — ” 

* ‘ But it is not according to the will that she should have no 
guardianship at all, but be approached by every youth that hap- 
pens to cross her path.” 

Mr. Rushton winced; if his wife schemed, was it his fault? 
‘‘Ah! I had heard something of that,” he said. “ Some young fel- 
low who followed her from town; it must be put a stop to.” 

“ It is put a stop to,” said Sir Thomas, “ Miss Trevor has, as I 
tell you, accepted me.” 

“ That is the most effectual way, certainly, isn’t it?” Mr. Rush- 
ton said, discomfited. He rubbed his hands ruefully, and shifted 
from one foot to another. “ It is a very serious question. I must 
go into it fully before I can pretend to say anything; you have a 
fine property, but it is heavily burdened, and a good position, an 
excellent position; but with her fortune my ward has a right to look 
very high indeed, Sir Thomas,” the lawyer said. 

“ You will not promise me your support?” said Sir Thomas. 

4 4 1 have a hard task before me, I understand, and the consent of a 
great many people to secure. And how about Miss Trevor’s let- 
ter?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye; ‘‘she will ask me what 
you said.” 

Mr. Rushton grew crimson once more. ‘‘It is out of the ques- 
tion,” he cried; “the girl is mad, and she will drive me mad. 
Two or three thousands! only two or three thousand pounds! the 


376 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EKGLAKD. 


other day she made away with six thousand — I declare before 
heaven she will bring down my gray hairs— no, that’s not what I 
mean to say But you can’t treat money in this way, Sir Thomas, 
you can’t do it; it will make me ill, it will give me a fever, or some- 
thing. The girl does not know what she is doing. Money! the 
one thing in the world that you can’t treat in this way.” 

“But the will permits it?” said Sir Thomas, with a fictitious 
look of sympathy. 

“ Oh, the will, the will is mad to. I dare not take it into a court 
of law. It would not stand, it could not stand for a moment. And 
what would be the issue?” cried Mr. Rushton, almost weeping, 
“ the money would be divided. The old man would be declared 
intestate, and the child, Jock, as they call him, would lake his 
share. She would deserve it — upon my honor, she would deserve it 
— but it would cut the property to pieces all the same, and that 
would be worse than anything. It will drive me out of my senses; 
I can’t bear this anxiety much longer,” Mr. Rushton said. 

Sir Thomas shook his head. “ I don’t see how it is to be mended. 
She has set her heart on carrying out the will, and unless you can 
show that she has no right — ” 

“ Right, there is no right in it!” Mr. Rushton cried. “ She will 
find out she has me to deal with. I am not a fool like Chervil. I 
will not give in at the first word; I will make my stand. I will put 
down my foot.” 

“ But, my good fellow,” said Sir Thomas sympathetically, “ first 
word or last word, what can it matter? What can you do against 
her? The will gives it, and the law allows it — you are helpless— 
you must give in to her at the last.” 

“I won’t!” he said, “or else I’ll throw up the whole concern, 
it has been nothing but botheration and annoyance. And now my 
wife at me— and Ray. I’ll wash my hands of the whole matter. 
I’ll not have my life made a burden to me, not for old Trevor, nor 
for Lucy, nor for any will in the world.” 

“ Give her to me, and you will be free,” said Sir Thomas, look- 
ing at his excited opponent steadily, to conceal the laughter in his 
own eyes. 

He came out of Mr. Rushton’s office an hour after, triumphant, 
and came along the market-place, and down the High Street, with 
a smile upon his face. Sir Tom felt that the ball was at his foot. 
An air of success and prosperity was about him, which vaguely im- 
pressed all the passers-by, and even penetrated through the shows 
in the shop-windows, and made everybody aware that something 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 377 

fortunate had happened. What had come to him? A fortune had 
been left him— he had been appointed Embassador somewhere, he 
had been made an Under-Secretary of State. All these suggestions 
were abroad in Farafield before night; for at this time it was quite 
early, and the people about w T ere at comparative leisure, and free to 
remark on what they saw. Something had happened to Sir Tom, 
and it was something good. The town in general disapproved of 
many of his ways, but yet liked Sir Tom. It pleased the public to 
see him streaming along like a procession, with all his colors flying. 
He went on till he came to the Terrace, pervading the streets like a 
new gleam of sunshine; but then he stopped short, just as he was 
about to enter the gate-way. Lucy herself was at the window-, 
looking for him. He paused as he was about to go in, then waved 
his hand to her, and turned the other way. Lucy followed him 
with her eyes, with astonishment, and disappointment, and conster- 
nation. Where could he be going across the common, away from 
her, though he saw her waiting for him? Sir Tom looked back 
once more, and waved his hand again when he was half way along 
the uneven road. He was bound for the White House. He recol- 
lected the letter of the will, which Lucy had vowed to keep, though 
Lucy herself had forgotten the marriage committee, and Mr. Rush- 
ton had this veiy morning openly scoffed at it. But Sir Thomas 
was confident in the successfulness of his success. Already of the 
six votes he had secured three. One more, and all was safe. 

Mrs. Stone was in her parlor, like the queen in the ballad, and, 
like that royal lady, was engaged upon a light refection. She had 
been worried, and she had been crossed, and teaching is hungry 
work. The two sisters were strengthening themselves with cake 
and wine for their work, when Sir Thomas Randolph was suddenly 
shown into the Queen Anne parlor, taking them by surprise. Sir 
Tom was not a man to alarm any woman with the mildest claim to 
personal atl ractiveness, and he admired the handsome school -mis- 
tress, and was not without an eye to see that even the little Southern- 
wood, with her little old-fashioned curls upon her cheek, had a 
pretty little figure still, and a complexion which a girl need not have 
despised. How Sir Tom made it apparent that he saw these per- 
sonal advantages, it would be hard to say— yet he managed to do so; 
and in five minutes had made himself as comfortable as the circum- 
stances permitted in one of the lofty Chippendale chairs, and was 
talking of most things in heaven and earth in his easy way. The 
ladies saw, as the people in the streets had seen, that some good 
fortune had happened to Sir Tom. But he was very wary in his 


378 THE GREATEST HEIRESS Itf ENGLAND. 


advances, and it was not till a little stir in the passages gave him 
warning that the girls were flocking in again to their class-rooms, 
and the moment of leisure nearly over, that he ventured on the real 
object of his visit. It was more difficult than he had thought; he 
had his back to the window, and the room was not very light, 
which was a protection to him; but still he had to clear his throat 
more than once before he began. 

“ I have a selfish object in this early visit,” he said; you will 
never divine it. I have come to throw myself on your charity. You 
have it in your power to make me or to mar me. I want you to 
give me your consent.” 

•‘To what?” Mrs. Stone said, surprised. Was it for a general 
holiday? was it an indulgence for Lily Barrington, for whom he 
professed a partiality? What was it? perhaps a protegee of doubt- 
ful pedigree, whom he wished to put under her care. 

Sir Thomas got up, keeping his back to the window. It was not 
half so easy as dealing with Mr. Rushton. “ It is something about 
your little pupil, Lucy Trevor.” 

“Oh!” Mrs. Stone got up too. “ I want to hear nothing more 
of Lucy Trevor. I wash my hands of her,” she said. 

“ Ah?” said Miss Southernwood, coming a step closer. She di- 
vined immediately, though she was not half so clever as her sister, 
what it was. 

“Iam sorry she has displeased you,” said Sir Tom. “ I want 
you to let me marry her, Mrs. Stone.” 

“Marry her!” Mrs. Stone said, almost with a shriek; and then 
she drew herself up to a great deal more than her full height, as she 
knew, very well how to do. “I have taken an interest in her, and 
she has disappointed me,” she said; “ and as to consenting or not 
consenting, all that is nonsense nowadays. It might have answered 
last century, but now it is obsolete.” Then she made him a stately 
courtesy. ‘ ‘ I could have nothing to oppose to Sir Thomas Ran- 
dolph, even, if I meant to oppose at all,” she said. 

Miss Southernwood came up to him as the door closed on her 
sister. 

“Was this what she meant all the time?” asked the milder 
woman. “ It was you she was thinking of all the time? Well, I 
do not blame her, and I hope you may be very happy. But, Sir 
Thomas, tell Lucy that I rely upon her to do nothing more in the 
matter we were talking of. It could not be done, it would not be 
possible to have it done; but, surely, surely, you could make it up 
between you to poor Frank. There are so many appointments that 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IK EXGLAXD. 


379 


would suit him, if he had good friends that would take a little 
trouble. I do think, Sir Thomas, that it might be made up to 
Frank.” 

Miss Southernwood, after all, was the best partisan and most 
stanch supporter; but it was strange that she, who had not origi- 
nated, nay, who had disapproved of her sister’s scheme in respect to 
Frank St. Clair, should be the one to insist upon a compensation to 
that discomfited hero. 

Lucy was still standing at the window when Sir Tom came back. 
He made signs of great despondency when he came in sight and 
alarmed her. 

“ She will not give me her consent, though I made sure of it,” 
he said. “ Lucy, what shall we do if we can not get Mrs. Stone’s 
consent?” 

“Her consent?” said Lucy, with momentary surprise. Then 
she made her first rebellion against all she had hitherto considered 
most sacred. “ I think we might do without it,” she said. 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

THE END. 

There was one thing which Sir Thomas got out of his matri- 
monial arrangements which was more than he expected, and that 
was a great deal of fun. After he had received, in the way above 
described, the angry submission of the two whom he chiefly feared, 
he had entered into the spirit of the thing, and determined that he 
would faithfully obey the will, and obtain the assent of all that 
marriage committee, who expected to make Lucy’s marrying so 
difficult a matter. He was even visited by some humorous com- 
punctions as he went on. The entire failure of poor old Trevor’s 
precautions on this point awakened a kind of sympathetic regret in 
his mature mind. “Poor old fellow!” he said; “ probably I was 
the last person he would have given his heiress to : most likely all 
these fences were made to keep me out,” he laughed; yet he felt a 
kind of sympathy for the old man, who, indeed, however, would 
have had no such objection to Sir Thomas as Sir Thomas thought. 
Next morning Lucy’s suitor went to the rector, who, to be sure, 
had it in his power to stop the whole proceedings, advanced as they 
were. But the rector had heard, by some of the subtle secret modes 
of communication which convey secrets, of something going on, and 
patted Sir Thomas on the shoulder. 


380 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


“ My dear Sir Tom,” he said, “ I never for a moment attached 
any importance to the vote given to me. Why should I interfere 
with Miss Trevor’s marriage? Your father-in-law that is to be (if 
one can speak in the future tense of a person who is in the past) en- 
tertained some odd ideas. He was an excellent man, I have not a 
doubt on that point, but— Now what could I know about it, for 
instance? I know Lucy — she’s a very nice girl, my girls like what 
they have seen of her immensely; but I know nothing about her 
surroundings. I am inclined to think she is very lucky to have 
fallen into no worse hands than yours.” 

“ The compliment is dubious,” said Sir Tom, “but I accept it; 
and I may take it for granted that I have your consent?” 

“ Certainly, certainly, you have my consent. I never thought of 
it but as a joke. That old man— I beg your pardon— your father- 
in-law must have had queer ideas about many things. I hear he 
left his heiress great latitude about spending — allowed her, in short, 
to give away her money.” 

“ I wonder how you heard that?” 

“ Ah! upon my word I can scarcely tell you. Common talk. 
They say, by the way, she is going to give a fortune to Katie Rus- 
sell on her marriage with young Rainy, the school- master; compen- 
sation, that! Rainy (who is a young prig, full of dissenting blood, 
though it suits him to be a churchman) no doubt thought he had a 
good chance for the heiress herself.” 

“ Don’t speak any worse than you can help of my future rela- 
tions,” said Sir Tom, with a laugh: “ it might make things awk- 
ward afterward;” upon which the rector perceived that he had gone 
half a step too far. 

“ Rainy is a very respectable fellow; there is not a word to be 
said against him. I wish I could say as much for all my own re- 
lations,” he said; “ but, Randolph, as I am a kind of a guardian, 
you know, take my advice in one thing. It is all very fine to be 
liberal; but I would not let her throw her money away.” 

Sir Tom made no direct reply. He shook the rector’s hand, and 
laughed. “I’ll tell Lucy you send her your blessing,” he said. 

And then he went off in a different direction, from the fine old 
red-brick rectory, retired in its grove of trees, to the little, some- 
what shabby street in which Mr. Williamson, the Dissenting minis- 
ter, resided — if a man can be said to reside in a back street. The 
house was small and dingy, the door opening into a very narrow 
passage, hung with coats and hats, for Mr. Williamson, as was 


THE GKEATEST HEIKESS IN ENGLAND. 


381 


natural, had a large family. It was only after an interval of run- 
ning up and down-stairs, and subdued calling of one member of the 
household after another, that the minister was unearthed and 
brought from the little back room, called his study, in his slippers 
and a very old coat, to receive the unlikely visitor. Sir Thomas 
Randolph! what could he want? There is always a certain alarm 
in a humble household attendant upon the unexpectedness' of such 
a visit. Could anything have happened? Could some one have 
gone wrong, was the anxious question of the Williamsons, as the 
minister was roused, and gently pushed into the parlor, where Sir 
Thomas, surrounded by all the grim gentility of the household gods, 
was awaiting him. The mother and daughter were on tiptoe in the 
back room, not listening at the door ce rtainly, but with excited ears 
ready for every movement. The vague alarm that they felt was re- 
flected in the minister’s face. Sir Thomas Randolph! What could 
he want? It was a relief to Mr. Williamson when he heard what it 
was; but he was not so easy in his assent as the rector. He took a 
seat near the suitor, with an air of great importance replacing the 
vague distrust and fear that had been in his face. 

“It is a great trust, Sir Thomas,” he said. “And I must be 
faithful. You will not expect me to do anything against my con- 
science. Lucy Trevor is a lamb of the flock, though spiritually no 
longer under my charge, her mother was an excellent woman, and 
our late friend, Mr. Trevor— This is an altogether unexpected ap- 
plication, you must allow me to think it over. I owe it to — to our 
late excellent friend who committed this trust to my unworthy 
hands.” 

“I thought,” said Sir Tom, “that it was a matter of form 
merely; but,” he added, with a better inspiration, “ I quite see how, 
to a delicate sense of duty like yours, it must take an aspect—” 

“ That is it, Sir Thomas— that is it,” Mr. Williamson said. “ I 
must be faithful at whatever cost. Yourself now, you will excuse 
me; there are reports — ” 

“ A great many, and at one time very well founded,” said Sir 
Thomas, with great seriousness, looking his judge in the face. 

This took the good minister by surprise, and the steady look con- 
fused him. A great personage, the greatest man in the county, a 
baronet, a man whose poverty (for he was known to be poor) went 
beyond Mr. Williamson’s highest realization of riches! It gave the 
excellent minister’s bosom an expansion of solemn pride, and, at 
the same time, a thrill of alarm. Persecution is out of date, but to 
stand up in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth, and 


382 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


convict him of evil— this is still occasionally possible. Mr. Will- 
iamson rose to the grandeur of his position. Such an opportunity 
had never been given to him before, and might never be again. 

‘’lam glad that you do not attempt to deny it, Sir Thomas; but 
at the same time there is a kind of bravado that boasts of evil-doing. 
I hope that is not the source of your frankness. The happiness of 
an innocent young girl is a precious trust, Sir Thomas. Unless we 
have guarantees of your change of life, and that you are taking a 
more serious view of your duties, how can I commit such a trust 
into your hands?” 

“ What kind of guarantees can I offer?” said Sir Thomas, with 
great seriousness. “ I can not give securities for my good conduct, 
can I? I will cordially agree to anything that your superior wis- 
dom and experience can suggest.” 

“ Do not speak of my wisdom, for I have none — experience, per- 
haps, I may have a little; and I think we must have guarantees.” 

“ With all my heart — if you will specify the kind,” Sir Thomas 
said. 

But here the good minister was very much at a loss, for he did 
not in the least know what kind of guarantees could be given, or 
taken. He was not accustomed to have his word taken so literally. 
He cleared his throat, and a flush came over his countenance, and 
he murmured, “ Ah!” and “Oh!” and all the other monosyllables 
in which English difficulty takes refuge. “You must be aware,” 
he said, “ Sir Thomas — not that I mean to be disagreeable — that 
there are many thing in your past life calculated to alarm the 
guardians.” 

“ But, my dear sir, when I confess it,” said Sir Thomas, “ when 
I admit it! when I ask only — tell me what guarantees I can give — 
what I can do or say — ” 

“ Guarantees are necessary — certainly guarantees are necessary,” 
said the minister, shaking his head; and then he gave to his attent- 
ive hearer a little sermon upon marriage, which was one of the 
good man’s favorite subjects. Sir Thomas listened with great 
gravity and sympathy. He subdued the twinkling in his eyes — he 
wanted to take advantage of the honorable estate. He said very 
little, and allowed his mentor to discourse frt ely. And nothing was 
said further about guarantees. Mr. Williamson gave his consent 
with effusion before the interview was over. “You have seen the 
folly of a careless life,” he said, “ I can not but hope that your 
heart is touched, Sir Thomas, and that all the virtues of maturity 
will develop in you; and if my poor approval and blessing can do 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


383 


you any good, you have it. I am not of those who think much of, 
neither do I belong to a denomination which gives special efficacy 
to, any man’s benediction; but as Jacob blessed Joseph, I give you 
my blessing.” Then as his visitor rose content, and offered him 
his hand, an impulse of hospitality came over the good man. “ My 
wife would say I was letting you go coldly, without offering you 
anything; but I believe it is quite out of fashion to drink wine in 
the morning — which is a very good thing, an excellent thing. But 
if you will come to tea — any afternoon, Sir Thomas. If you will 
bring Lucy to tea!” 

Afterward, after the door was shut, the minister darted out again 
and called after his visitor, “ My wife says if you would name an 
afternoon, or if Lucy would write to her what day we may expect 
you — not to make preparations,” said the minister, waving his 
hand, “ but in case we should be out, or engaged.” 

Sir Thomas promised fervently. “You shall certainly hear a day 
or two before we come,” he said, and walked away with a smile on 
his face. To be sure he never meant to go back to tea, but his con- 
science did not smite him. He had got off safe and sound without 
any guarantees. 

“Now there is only my aunt’s consent to get,” he said, when he 
had gone back to the Terrace. “ We have stuck to the very letter 
of the will, and you see all has gone well. I am going off to Fair- 
haven to-morrow. I know she is there.” 

“But must you ask her consent? you know she will give it,” 
Lucy said. 

“ How do I know she will give it? Perhaps she would prefer to 
keep you to herself.” Lucy smiled at the thought; but Sir Thomas 
did not feel so sure. His aunt meant him to marry Lucy eventually ; 
but that was a very different thing from carrying her off now. 

When Sir Thomas went away, Lucy had a great many visitors. 
Even Mrs. Rushton came, embarrassed, but doing her best to look 
at her ease. “ Why did you not tell me that this was going on, you 
silly child? I should have understood everything, I should have 
made allowances for everything. But, perhaps, he had never come 
to the point till the other day? Mr. Rushton and Raymond send 
you their very best wishes. And Emmie has hopes that after see- 
ing so much of each other all the autumn, you will choose her for 
one of your brides-maids, Lucy. And I wish you every happiness, 
my dear,” Mrs. Rushton cried, kissing her with a little enthusi- 
asm, having talked all her embarrassment away. Lucy was sur- 
prised by this change, but she was no casuist, and she did not in- 


384 THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


quire into it. It was a relief which she accepted thankfully. Mrs. 
Stone came also with her congratulations. “ Lady Randolph was 
very wise to forestall everybody,” she said. “ And, Lucy, I shall 
be very glad to have you near me, to watch how you go on in your 
new life. Never hesitate to come to me in a difficulty. ” This was 
the way in which she took her pupil’s elevation. Had Lucy been 
raised to a throne, she would have made a similar speech to her. 
She would have felt that she could instruct her how to reign. As 
for Mr. St. Clair, Lucy still had much trouble to go through on his 
account. She was very reluctant to give up her scheme for his 
help, but at last, after a great many interviews with Miss South- 
wood, was got to perceive that the thing to be done was to make 
Sir Thomas “find an appointment ” for her unfortunate suitor. 
‘‘He can easily do it, ’’said Miss South wood, with that innocent 
faith in influence which so many good people still retain. 

Bertie Russell disappeared from Farafield on the day after the 
advent of Sir Thomas. He was the most angry of all Lucy’s suit- 
ors, and he put her this time into his book in colors far from flatter- 
ing. But, fortunately, nobody knew her, and the deadly assault 
was never found out, not even by its immediate victim, for, like 
many writers of fiction, and, indeed, like most who are worth their 
salt, Bertie was not successful in the portraiture of real character. 
His fancy was too much for his malevolence, and his evil intentions 
thus did no harm. 

Sir Thomas traveled as fast as expresses could take him to the 
house in which his aunt was paying one of her many autumn visits 
— for I need not say that she had returned from Homburg some 
time before. The house was called Fairhaven. It was the house 
of a distinguished explorer and discoverer; and the company as- 
sembled there included various members of Lady Randolph’s spec- 
ial “ society. ” When Sir Thomas walked into the room, where, 
all the male portion of the party being still in the covers, the ladies 
weie seated at tea, his aunt rose to meet him, from out of a little 
group of her friends. Her privy council, that dread secret tribunal 
by which her life was judged, were all about her in the twilight 
and firelight. When his name was announced, to the great surprise 
of everybody, Lady Randolph rose up with a similar but much 
stronger sense of vague alarm than that which had moved the minis- 
ter the previous day. “ Tom!” she cried, with surprise which she 
tried to make joyful; but indeed she was frightened, not knowing 
what kind of news he might have come to tell. Mrs. Berry-Mon 
tagu who was sitting as usual with her back to the light, though 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND, 


385 


there was so little of that, gave a little nod and glance aside to 
Lady Betsinda, who was seated high in a throne-like, antique chair, 
and did not care how strong the light was which fell on her old 
shiny black satin and yellow lace. “ I told you!” said Mrs. Berry - 
Montagu. She thought all her friend’s hopes, so easily penetrated 
by those keen-eyed spectators, were about to be thrown to the 
ground, and the desire to observe “ how she would bear it,” imme- 
diately stirred up those ladies to the liveliest interest. Sir Thomas, 
however, when he had greeted his aunt, sat down with his usual 
friendly ease, and had some tea. He was quite ready to answer all 
their questions, and he was not shy about his good news, but ready 
to unfold them whenever it might seem most expedient so to do. 

“ Straight from the Hall?” Lady Randolph said, with again a 
tremor. Did this mean that he had been making preparations for 
his setting out? 

“ I got there three days ago,” said Sir Tom; “ poor old house, it 
is a pity to see it so neglected. It is not such a bad house — ” 

“ A bad house! there is nothing like it in the county. If I could 
but see you oftener there, Tom,” his aunt cried in spite of herself. 

Sir Tom smiled, pleased with the consciousness which had not 
yet lost its amusing aspect; but he did not make any reply. 

“ He likes his own way,” said Lady Betsinda; “ I don’t blame 
him. If I were a young man — and he is still a young man — I’d 
take my swing. When he marries, then he’ll range himself, like 
all the rest, I suppose.” 

“Lady Betsinda talks like a book — as she always does,” said 
Sir Tom, with his great laugh; “when I marry, everything shall 
be changed.” 

“ That desirable consummation is not very near at hand, one can 
see,” said Mrs. Berry- Montagu, out of the shadows, in her thin, 
fine voice. 

Sir Tom laughed again. There was something frank, and 
hearty, and joyous in the sound of his big laugh; it tempted other 
people to laugh too, even when they did not know what it was 
about. And Lady Randolph did not in the least know what it was 
about, yet the laugh gained her in spite of herself. 

“ Apropos of marriage,” said Mrs. Montagu once more, “have 
you seen little Miss Trevor in your wilds, Sir Tom? Our young 
author has gone off there, on simulated duty of a domestic kind, 
but to try his best for the heiress, I am sure. Do you think he has 
a chance? I am interested,” said the little lady. “ Come, the latest 
13 


386 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


gossip! you must know all about it. In a country neighborhood 
every scrap is worth its weight in gold.” 

“ I know all about it,” said Sir Tom. 

“ That you may be sure he does; where does all the gossip come 
from but from the men? we are never so thorough. He’ll give you 
the worst of it, you may take my word for that. But I like that 
little Lucy Trevor,” cried old Lady Betsinda; “ she was a nice, 
modest little thing. She never looked her money; she was more 
like a little girl at home, a little kitten to play with. I hope she is 
not going to have the author. I always warned you, Mary Ran- 
dolph, not to let her have to do with authors, and that sort of peo- 
ple; but you never take my advice till it’s too late.” 

“ She is not going to marry the author,” said Sir Tom, with 
another laugh; and then he rose up, almost stumbling over the tea- 
table. “ My dear ladies,” he said, “ who are so much interested in 
Lucy Trevor, the fact is that the author never had the slightest 
chance. She is going to marry — me. And I have come, Aunt 
Mary, if you please, to ask if you will kindly give your consent? 
The other guardians have been good enough to approve of me,” he 
added, making her a bow, “ and I hope I may not owe my disap' 
pointment to you.” 

“The other guardians— Tom!” cried Lady Randolph, falling 
upon him and seizing him with both hands, “ is this true?” 

Sir Tom kissed her hand with a grace which he was capable of 
when he pleased, and drew it within his arm. 

“ I presume, then,” he said, as he lediier away, “ that I shall get 
your consent too.” 

Thus old Mr. Trevor’s will was fulfilled. It was not fulfilled in 
the way he wished or thought of, but what then? He thought it 
would have kept his daughter unmarried, whereas her mourning 
for him was not ended when she became Lady Randolph — which 
she did very soon after the above scene, to the apparent content of 
everybody. Even Philip Rainy looked upon the arrangement with 
satisfaction. Taking Lucy’s fortune to redeem the great Randolph 
estate, and to make his little cousin the first woman in the county, 
was not like giving it “ to another fellow;” which was the thing he 
had not been able to contemplate with patience. The popular im- 
agination, indeed, was more struck with the elevation of little Lucy 
Trevor to be the mistress of the Hall than with Sir Thomas’s good 
fortune in becoming the husband of the greatest heiress in England. 
But when his settlements were signed, both the guardians, Mr. 
Chervil and Mr. Rushton, took the bridegroom-elect aside. 


THE GREATEST HEIRESS IN ENGLAND. 


387 


“ We can not do anything for you about that giving- away 
clause," Mr. Chervil said, shaking his head. 

“ But Sir Thomas is not the man I take him for, if he don’t find 
means to keep that in check,” said Mr. Rushton. 

Sir Tom made no reply, and neither of these gentlemen could 
make out what was meant by the humorous curves about his lips 
and the twinkle in his eye. 


THE END. 


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LIST OF AUTHORS. 


Works by the author of “ Addic’a 
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388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

246 A Fatal Dower 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

588 Cherry 10 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid... 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !”. . . 10 

278 For Life and Love.., 10 

481 The House That Jack Built 10 

F. Austey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 
Romance...., 10 

R. M. Ballantyue’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 


Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green ”. . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

m. Betliam-Edwards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage; or, The Wait- 
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579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doetor Jacob 20 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings; A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


William Black’s Works— Con- 


tinued. 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly . 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
627 White Heather 20 

R. D. Blackinore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin*.. 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 < lara Vaughan 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. First half. 20 
033 The Maid of Sker. Second half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. First half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. Second half.. 20 

Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery.. 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin. 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a. Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 
Shadow in the Corner 10 


549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 


er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter Eud 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am ; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy. ... 20 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


Works by Charlotte M. Braeme, 
Author of “Dora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madoliu’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms.. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana's Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl's Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition, 


Works by Chariot le M. Braeme— 


Continued. 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Eveiyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

maiue’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom . 20 


Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 


Hugh Conway’s Works. 

240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Da.ys 10 

302 The Blatcbford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’sGift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 90 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 


15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 

Rlioda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmaius 10 


Robert Buchanan’s Works. 


145 


“ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water. 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan 10 

646 The Master of the Mine 10 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor 20 

E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 

521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heatlicote’s Trial 20 

608 For Lilias 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot 10 

233 “ I Say No or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 


J. Feniinore Cooper’s Works. 

60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll 20’ 

385 The Headsman ; or, The Ab- 

baye des Viguerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore: 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack ’Pier; or, The Florida Reef 20 

419 TheChainbearer ; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 
Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins 20 


Georgiana M. Craik’s Works. 

450 Godfrey HelstODe.... 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 


B. M. Croker’s Works. 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else 20 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Alphonse Dnitdet’s Works. 

*84 Jack 20 

574 The Nabob: A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 20 


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10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. I .. 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. 1 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. Second half 20 

41 Oliver Twist 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

84 Hard Times 10 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 20 

106 Bleak House. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 10 

131 Our Mutual Friend 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. .. 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man 10 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Cbuzzlewit. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. Second half 20 

439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers. &c 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood. . 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People 20 


F. Du Bolsgobey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 20 

104 The Coral Pin 30 

364 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 10 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 20 

*28 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

Second half 20 

453 The Lottery Ticket 20 

475 The Prima Donna's Husband . . 20 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, Steel 

Gauntlets 20 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 20 

*48 The Angel of the Bells 20 


29 Beauty’s Daughters 1* 

30 Faith and Unfaith 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. .. 10 

1&3 Sweet is True Love 10 

129 Rossmoyne 10 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories 10 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

171 Fortune’s Wheel 10 

284 Doris 10 

312 A Week in Killarney 10 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 10 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 10 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 10 

541 “As It Fell Upon a Day.” 10 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 20 

75 Twenty Years After 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 10 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
Part II 20 


George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 20 

36 Adam Bede 20 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 20 

31 Middlemareh. 2d half 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 20 

42 Romola 20 

B. L. Farjeon’s Works. 

179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love's Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

6‘'7 Christmas Angel 10 

G. Manville Fenn’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 10 


“The Ducliess’s” Works. 

2 Molly Bawn 

6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Phyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 


20 

20 

10 

20 

20 


Octave Feui (let’s Works. 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 

386 Led Astray : or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse ’ 



lo 

it 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Mrs. Forrester’ >4 Works. 


80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vauitas. A Tale of So- 

ciety 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales 10 

Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 

314 Peril..... 20 

572 Healey 20 

It. E. Francillon’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Win. Senior. . 10 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113... 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

John It. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton's Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

Works by the Author of “Judith 
Wynne.’’ 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 


William II. G. Kingston’s Works. 


117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
133 Peter the Whaler 10 

Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Mary Linskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea 20 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pbmpeii 20 

83 A Strange Story..., 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice; or, The»Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) 20 


George Macdonald’s Works. 


282 Doual Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

326 Phan tastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 10 


Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 10 

183 Old Coutrairy, and Other 

Stories 10 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

Captain Marryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 20 

272 The Little Savage 10 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

438 Found Out 10 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? 10 

673 Story of a Sin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Justin McCarthy’s Works. 


121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola 20 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880—1885 20 

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller’s 
Works. 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls 1 

Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline 

Rodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls’’ 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy % 10 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter.’’ 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter. .. 20 

r W. E. Norris’s Works. 


184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 

Laurence Olinh ant’s Works. 

47 Altiora Peto 20 

537 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland..., 20 


377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation — 20 
402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 


Life of Mrs Margaret Mait- 
land of Suunyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes, 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait 10 

“ Ouida’s ” Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras.. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel.... 20 

239 Signa 20 

433 A Rainy June 10 

639 Othrnar 20 

671 Don Gesualdo 10 

672 In Maremma. First half 20 

672 In Maremma. Second half 20 

James Payn’s Works. 

48 Thicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward 20 

343 The Talk of the Town 20 

577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praecl’s Works. 

428 Zero: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 10 
477 Affinities 10 

Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

173 The Foreigners 20 

331 Gerald 20 

Charles Reade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret 10 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 


71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

593 Benia Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

598 “Corinna.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 


F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHerb 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in Loudon 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 20 


W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 
Stories 20 


Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “ The 

Monastery ”) '20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lainmermoor 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Weli 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 


William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 


Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 


Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

§50 Struck Down 10 


Frank £. Smedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 


Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or. The Rail- 
road of Life 20 

T. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 


Eugene Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I... 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. . 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part 1 . 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

George Temple’s Works. 


599 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M. Thackeray’s Works. 

27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half). . 20 
531 The Prime Minister (2d half).. 20 

Annie Thomas’s W T orks. 

141 She Loved Him ! 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium 10 

Anthony Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. . 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half... 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil ... 10 
667 The Golden Lion of Granpere . . 20 

Margaret Veley’s Works, 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 

Jules Verne’s Works. 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 20 
368 The Southern Star; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part 1 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 
PartlH 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


L. B. Walford’tt Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 

258 Cousins 20 

658 The History of a Week 10 

F. Warden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 20 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness 20 

E. Werner’s Works. 

327 Raymond's Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 

(l.'J. Whyte-Melville’s Works. 


tvJ Ivtlj o »> UD, . <vv 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 20 

John Strange Winter’s Works. 

492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated 10 

600 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 
Black Horse) Dragoous 10 

Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 

8 East Lynne 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 
and Other Tales 10 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

275 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father 20 

665 The Dove iu the Eagle’s Nest.. 20 

666 My Young Alcides 20 

Miscellaneous. 

53 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

09 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell . . 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 


115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. Thomas Hughes 26 

122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blat'n- 

erwick 10 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 
leod, D.D 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler « 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 10 

182 The Millionaire 20 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Majenriie 10 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 

O’Rell 10 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James. . 20 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

Georges Ohnet 10 

242 The Two Orphans. D'Enuery. 10 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer . . 10 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 20 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” :. . . 10 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

313 The Lover's Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
el Hoey 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmaun Chat- 
nan 10 




THE SEASIDE LIB DART. -Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Conti lined. 


330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. Sarah 

Doudney 10 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

347 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 
354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 


355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 
365 George Christy ; or, The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 


Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid6 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

4130 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” 10 

432 The Witch's Head. H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

435 Kly tia : A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes « 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany. . . 10 
452 In the West Countrie. May 

Crommelin 20 


457 The Russians at the Gates of 


Herat. Charles Marvin 16 

458 A Week of Passion ; or, The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Lewis Carrol 

With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenniel • . .20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord” 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 10 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

509 Nell Haffendeu. Tiglie Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By M/s. An- 
drew Lang 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guiity Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh — 20 
566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt. 

James Grant 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 

mynsCarr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 

Mayne Reid 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

595 A North Country Maid. Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

614 No. 99. Arthur Griffiths 10 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn 10 

628 Wedded Hands. Author of 
“My Lady’s Folly ” «« 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

634 The Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 
lon 20 

637 What’s His Offence? 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 

Cumberland 10 

643 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. Washington 
Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 

wards 20 

652 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 

Marlitt 20 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

Mrs. Molesworth 10 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
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675 Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
677 Griselda. Author of “ A Wom- 


an s Love-Story ” 20 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 
Romance 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. Sarah 

Doudney 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. May Laffan. 10 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe. 20 

680 Fast and Loose. Arthur Grif- 

fiths 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 


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026 A Fair Mystery. By Charlotte 
M. Brat me, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ’ 20 

669 The Philosoph}* of Whist. By 

William P< le 20 

670 The Rose and the Ring. By W. 

M. Thackeray. Illustrated... 10 

671 Don Gesualdo. By “Ouida.”.. 10 

672 In Maremnia. By “ Ouida.” 

1st half 20 

672 In Maremma By “ Ouida.” 

2d half .* 20 

673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

674 First Person Singular. By 

David Christie Murray 20 

675 Mrs. Dyinond. By Miss Thack- 

eray 20 

676 A Child’s History of England. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

677 Griselda. By the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 


678 Dorothy’s Venture. Bj t Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. "By 

Sarah Doudney 20 

680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur 

Griffiths 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. By May Laf- 

fau 10 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. By Mrs. J. Harcourt- 
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684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

685 England Under Gladstone. 1880 

— 1885. By Justin H. McCarthy, 
M.P 20 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis 
Stevenson 10 

687 A Country Gentleman. By Mrs. 

Oliphaiit 20 

688 A Man of Honor. By John 

Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd. 

By Thomas Hardy 20 

691 Valentine Strange. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

«92 The Mikado, and Other Comic 
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693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By 

George Eliot 20 

694 John Maidment. By Julian 

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695 Hearts: Queen. Knave, and 

Deuce. By David Christie 
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696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss 

Jane Porter 20 

697 The Pretty Jailer. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. 1st half 20 

698 A Life's Atonement. By David 

Christie Murray 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half. .. 20 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. By 

F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half... 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony 

Trollope. 2d half 20 

701 The Woman in White. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 
701 The Woman in White. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself. 

By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

son 10 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagdeu 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 

land. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

711 A Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Con- 

way 20 


712 For Maimie’s Sake. A Tale of 

LoVe and Dynamite. ByGrant 
Allen 20 

713 “ Cherry Ripe 1” By Helen B. 

Mathers 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Mary Cecil Haj 7 20 

7£1 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George 

Macdonald 20 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 

727 Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

729 Mignon. Mrs. Forrester 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

736 Roy and Viola. By Mrs. For- 
rester 20 


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THE Biuth or Civilization— A Message from the SEA 3% 



PEARS’ SOAP IMPROVES THE COM- 
PLEXION , IS UNRIVALED AS A PURE DE- 
LIGHTFUL TOILET SOAP, A ND IS FOR SALE 
THROUGHOUT THE CIVILIZED WORLD . 


The New York Fashion Bazar. 

THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price 545 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $3„00 per Year. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “The Duchess,” 
author of “ Molly Bawn,’ Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “ Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 


COMMENTS OF THE PRESS: 


The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is a capital number, replete 
with illustrations of all the fashions of 
the day. The Bazar is superior to all 
other magazines and contains a wealth 
of information for the women. The 
contents also include some excellent 
reading of a miscellaneous nature 
which will interest and instruct all who 
peruse i t.—New London Day. 

The New York Fashion Bazar pre 
sents its patrons with an endless vari- 
ety of styles for winter garments. 
Cloaks, long and short, mantles and 
sacques are profusely illustrated. The 
opening chapters of a new serial by 
“ The Duches,” called “Lady Branks- 
mere,” are written in her usual racy 
style, and the magazine closes with 
all sorts of useful suggestions for the 
toilet to those interested in its intrica- 
cies. — Newark Daily Journal. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is already out, and is full of 
excellent reading, beginning in this 
number a new story, called “Lady 
Branksmere,” by “ The Duchess. ” But 
the fashion plates, colored and plain, 
are the feature. Here is everything 
in season for ladies and children, as 
well as embroidery patterns, etc. It 
is a marvel of cheapness— 25 cents per 
copy ; $2.50 per year .—Methodist Prot- 
estant 5, Baltimore, Md. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
November has its usual timely array 
of fashion plates and hints by way of 
explanation of the same. George 
Munro, New York, publisher. —Troy 
Telegram. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is a 
manual of completeness and elegance. 
It it a veritable book of fashions, is- 
sued every month. The publisher, 
George Munro, is sparing nothing in 
the way of enterprise. — Daily British 
Whig, Kingston, Ont. 


The December number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar is replete with 
fashion information, illustrated with 
plain and colored engravings, and de- 
votes considerable space to interesting 
stories and other choice reading. — 
Norristown Daily Herald. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December appears with its usual com- 
plete representations of the costumes 
of the day. The reading matter con- 
tains much that is spicy.— Washing- 
ton Capital. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is 
full of suggestions in regard to the 
fashioning of dresses and fancy arti- 
cles, as well as the usual installment of 
literature.— The Church Union , N. Y. 

The -Fashion Bazar, published by 
George Munro, New York, presents a 
most attractive number for November. 
The double-page fashion plate gives 
six full-length figures, handsomely 
colored, showing the most desirable of 
late fashions in garments for the win- 
ter, and this is followed by the most 
reliable information, fully illustrated, 
of all the articles of ladies’ wear on 
which the sex desire to be fully in- 
formed. The Bazar is a really ele- 
gant publication, and needs only to be 
seen to be fully appreciated.— Law- 
rence Daily American. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is gay with winter fashions, 
a very great number of illustrations, a 
brightly colored cover, and a large 
colored fashion plate containing six 
figures, with a multitude of other illus- 
trations. There is also a large amount 
of general reading and stories. — Chris- 
tian Secretary , Hartford, Ct. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December is at hand, and is a number 
that will greatly delight the ladies. 
—Daily Argus, Cairo, 111. 


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THE CELEBRATED 


SOEMER 






GRAM), SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


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tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 


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American Piano 
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solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
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They are used, 
in Conservato- 
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Munro’s Publications. 


The Seaside Library — Pocket Edition. 


MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORK8. 


Se- 


20 

20 


35 Lady Audley’s 

cret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune.. 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 
153 The Golden Calf. .. . 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or. Splen- 
did Misery 20 

263 Ah Ishninellte 20 

315 The Mistletoe 
Bough. Edited by 
Miss Braddon.... 

434 Wyllard’s Weird.. 

478 l)ia villa; or, No- 
body’s Daughter. 

Part I 

478 Diavola; or. No. 
body’s Daughter. 

Part II 

480 Married in Haste. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. 

Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon.. 20 

488 Joshun Haggard’s 

Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

1 496 Onlv a Woman. 
Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


20 


20 


497 The Lady’s Mile... 

498 Only a Clod 

499 The Cloven Foot... 
511 A Strange World . . 
515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 
524 Strangers and Pil- 

trims. 

529 The Doctor’s Wife. 

542 Fenton’s Quest 

544 Cut by the County; 
or, Grace Darnel. 

548 The Fatal Marriage, 

and The Shadow 
in the Corner 

549 Dudley Carleon, and 

George Cauiiield’s 
Journey 

552 Hostages toKortune 

553 Birds of Prey 

554 Charlotte’s Inher- 

itance. (Sequel to 
“ Birds of Prey.”) 
557 To the Bitter End. 

559 Taken at t lie Flood 

560 Asphodel 

561 Just as 1 am; or, A 

Living Lie 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes.. 
570 John Marchmont’s 

Legacy 

618 The Mistletoe 
Rough. Christ- 
mas, 1885 


20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


20 

20 

20 


10 


10 


10 

20 

20 


20 

20 

20 

20 


20 

20 


Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postpaid, 
on receipt of the price. Address 


NEW 


TABERNACLE SERMONS 


Preached in the Brooklyn Tabernacle. 


By Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, D.] 


CONTENTS : 


Brawn and Muscle. 
The Pleiades and Orion 
The Queen’s Visit. 
Vicarious Suffering. 
Posthumous Opportu- 
nity. 

The Lord’s Razor. 
Windows Toward Je- 
rusalem. 

Stormed and Taken. 
All the World Akin. 

A Momentous Quest. 
The Great Assize. 

The Road to the City. 
The Ransomless. 

The Three Groups. 


The Insignificant. 
The Three Rings. 


0 „ 

How He Came to Sa::; 


it. 

Castle Jesus. • 

Stripping the Slain. 

Sold Out. 

Summer Temptation 
The Banished Queen: 

The Day We Live In. 
Capital and Labor. 
Tobacco and Opium. : { 

Despotism of “ 
Needle. . 

Why are Satan and Si.; r 

Permitted? jj. 


The book will be forwarded, postage pro 
paid, on receipt of price, $1.00. Address 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 


GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

P.O.Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N.Y. ! 




irf 











